


Angel's Sojourn

by Wolfmit



Series: When You Dance With Devils: Hannibal x Reader x Will [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Good Writing, Hannibal x Reader - Freeform, Mystery, Romance, Thriller, Will x Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26055772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfmit/pseuds/Wolfmit
Summary: The Reader is a young and beautiful artist in Baltimore Maryland. She witnesses a murder committed by a masked assailant, an event that changes everything for her. She begins therapy with the notorious Dr. Hannibal Lecter, due to the fervent insistence of her hysterical mother. She also consults for the FBI on the very case she's involved with, alongside the charming and enigmatic Will Graham, who she must soon fight her feelings for once she enters into a clandestine and passionate relationship with her therapist. But will she find out about his peculiar diet and unsavory habits? Will she figure out the identity of the masked murderer that savages the women of Baltimore before it's too late? Will she dance with the Devil? Or fall for the hero?
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Reader, Will Graham/Reader
Series: When You Dance With Devils: Hannibal x Reader x Will [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891465
Comments: 37
Kudos: 176





	1. Cassoulet

There has always been something unsettling about seeing an immaculately cleaned room you decide to yourself, standing in the doorway of Dr. Hannibal Lecter's office. The Doctor himself is standing at your side, holding the door open and motioning with his hand for you to step inside. Taking in the scene before you, you can't help feeling an odd sense of security accompanying this hair raising strangeness.

You turn to the Doctor, his maroon eyes already locked on you in a steady, hard gaze. A wave of fear nearly threatens to knock you over but you hold your ground. There's no reason for you to be afraid of him, He's only here to help, you remind yourself gently. With the worry gone you can finally look at him, taking in his appearance. He is tall, slender, but in no way scrawny. You can see his muscles through his three-piece suit, tight but still fitting just right. The three-piece suit in question is obviously designer, fitted to his exact measurements. His hair is perfect, salt and pepper with a slight dusting of stubble. And his lips- are unlike any you'd seen before, perfectly shaped, angular and soft. He is fucking hot, in an elegant and bold way.

You take a few hesitant steps inside, the door closing softly behind you.

"Good Evening Miss L/N, it's a pleasure to meet you, I am Doctor Hannibal Lecter." Even his accent is endearing- Danish or Dutch maybe. European, you think silently, that explains the chiseled God look... He holds a hand out towards you, and hesitantly you take it, his flesh instantly sending a shock through yours as soon as you touch, and your breath hitches in your throat.

"Please call me Y/N," you say, remembering your manners.

"Very well then, Please, take a seat Y/N and we'll get started." he motions to one of two chairs facing each other at the far end of the room. Taking your seat you can now see the entire room from where you are. There's an entire wall of books spanning one whole side of the room, a balcony looking over from where they were upon their shelves, a ladder leaned against the side to allow easy access to the books above. to your right, you see large windows shadowed by heavy curtains that fall neatly in elegant waves to the floor. He sits across from you and places one leg over the other. You quickly scramble for something to say.

"You have a lovely home, Dr. Lecter." He smiles.

"Oh I don't live here, my home is across town. This is just my office."

"Oh..." you trail off, letting your gaze drift from his face. It is after all, incredibly distracting.

He leans forward in his seat to see you better- like he's trying to read you.

"You seem nervous. I assure you, I don't bite." This brings a cautious laugh from you, still quite afraid to test the waters.

"Well, that's relieving." He chuckles at your reply.

"Y/N, you do not have to be afraid. I assure you, this is a safe place, anything you say here will stay just between you and me." You breathe a sigh, silently preparing yourself for the emotional turmoil you are about to go through. "Why don't you start by telling me a bit about yourself?"

This is the part that you had been dreading. All your life you had been led to believe that therapy was for crazy people- after what happened to your older sister all those years ago. But this man sitting in front of you was completely relaxed, calm. He obviously doesn't think you are crazy, or if he does, he is very good at hiding it. In fact, he makes you feel all too ordinary compared to his splendid manner. You feel wildly underdressed for starters, with your dark jeans and simple blouse, long coat, and windblown wavy brown hair. And anyway, who could feel anything but normal meeting this man? He is all too extraordinary.

"Well, there's not much to tell really..." He stops you by putting a hand in the air.

"I find that very hard to believe Miss Y/N. And if you are going to lie to me again I will greatly appreciate some notice, perhaps then I can end our session without having wasted too much of our time." His message is strong and clear, yet his face is still as stone. His look is not one of anger, but one of... intrigue.

You stutter, not expecting him to see right through you.

"How about we try something easier." He says. You nod, anything will be better than talking about yourself. "I noticed your accent... Where is it from exactly? I can't quite place it, it is lovely though." You find yourself blushing profusely, surprised, to say the least. You've tried since middle school to be rid of what is, in your mind, an instant turn off for men and women- outside of the south of course. Classmates have never failed to make your dialect an object of curiosity, or often the butt of their cruel jokes.

You'd reduced it to only a slight change in articulation; longer "I" sounds and harder "R's", nevertheless Dr. Lecter had detected it.

"Louisianna. Just outside of New Orleans. I was born there." You wince at how you said "New Orleans" like it was one word. Nothing ever woke up your accent quite like talking about home. He chuckles though and says, in near perfect french; "Est-ce que tu parles français?"

This makes you laugh and as you shake your head you said "I don't think anyone's spoken french- at least not predominantly in New Orleans for a hundred years, Doctor. But, Oui monsieur. My mother taught me growing up, and I took classes all through high school and college." You shrug and he smiles, his eyes narrowing as he writes a few notes down thoughtfully in what must have been an elegant scrawl. You can't read his notes from here but you can tell he must be writing down something as he repeatedly put his pen to paper.

"That's probably true Y/N. Sad really, it is such a beautiful language." You nod in agreement and watch as he adds a few more little flicks to his notes. "While we are on the topic of your past Y/N, I'd like you to tell me about your mother. She is the one that suggested you see a therapist yes? Even though she wasn't the individual who referred you to me."

Your hands immediately tense, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of your palms, and Dr. Lecter of course, notices at once. "A delicate subject?" You nod and take a well needed deep breath.

"My mother... she was worried about me after what happened. She wanted me to get help. We don't talk all the time, she still lives in Louisiana." You specify and he nods, adding something to his notepad with a flourish. "We emailed often, and I suppose I started pulling away from her after the incident," You don't say "murder" instead choosing a much more innocent term. "Becuase then she suggested I see someone. I already had a referral, but I told myself I didn't need therapy..."

"Did she change your mind about the subject?" He asks.

"I wouldn't say that." You chuckle. "I guess I'm just humoring her. She says it's not normal for people to just bounce back after witnessing a murder." You say, forcing a smile that he returns dryly. He is leaning forward, obviously interested in what you have to say. You explain to him what exactly had happened to have your mother break the way she now was broken. It was nearly 12 years ago that these events took place, though it still feels as fresh in your mind as if it had happened yesterday.

"When I was growing up, I had an older sister." You say, starting at your palms as they lay in your lap.

"Not anymore?" He asks, and you look up to see him raising his eyebrows.

"Not anymore," you repeat sighing, giving him a devilishly dry smile. "I don't remember much of what happened. I was only thirteen when she passed, my sister was already an adult. Her name was Holly. I remember the day she died. It had been raining, her blood was running down the street in a river of rain and snowmelt."

"Poetic." He said. "How did she die?"

"She succumbed to her demons I suppose." He tilted his head to the side, obviously waiting for a bit more clarification. "Suicide." You confirmed.

"And your mother?" His brow crinkled in concern.

"She did nothing. She could have stopped it, I know she could have. She forever insists that there was nothing she could do. But she knew Holly... Better than anybody. If anyone could have helped her, it was our mom. She was with Holly when it happened, saw the gun, heard the shot, she witnessed everything." Dr. Lecter folds his hands in his lap and leans back, possibly processing the information you had just given him.

"Your sister, did she show any signs of having suicidal thoughts? Any symptoms of depression?"

"Not that I remember," You say not entirely sure yourself. "She was always doing something, Holly. Out with friends, on a road trip, after-school sports. She did so much. And then, boom. She was just gone. Our mother told me it was all an accident. That Holly was confused, she was hurt, upset. I've never gotten the truth out of her." You sniff. "I still have no idea what could have happened that made her depressed enough to take her own life."

Thinking about Holly doesn't really get you that upset anymore. It had been 12 years ago after all. But there is something about the way that Dr. Lecter is looking at you that makes you feel like you were there again. His gaze left you in your Little Mermaid nightgown, face pressed up against the glass of your bedroom window, watching the scene of Holly's death unfold before you. "And you resent your mother for keeping it from you." It wasn't a question, but you nod anyway.

"Of course."

"And that is why you were hesitant to come here." He assumes. Once again he had guessed correctly like he is looking directly into your soul. Meeting his haunting gaze you suspect that it might even be true.

"Alright Y/N," Dr. Lecter stands gracefully from his chair, crossing over to his desk, picking up a manila folder placed on the top of a neatly stacked pile of papers. You take this moment to look around at his office, noticing more than you had at first glance. You see an antique globe in the corner, a bronze statue of a stag, and a small table with an easel for drawing. You crain your neck to try and see whats on the piece of thin drawing paper but are pulled back to the center of the room when Dr. Lecter sits back down in front of you with your folder in his hands.

"I heard your initial statement from the BCPD, but I don't have much. Murder is not a federal crime, and acquiring documents from state authorities is not the easiest of tasks. I would like to hear the story from you if you would be so kind." He sits back and looks at you with those strangely beautiful maroon eyes, concentrating on only you. "The sooner you get it out then the sooner you can begin healing." You laugh quietly to yourself at this, and he quirks his head to the side.

"Amusing is it?" You clear your throat, feeling embarrassed now.

"No Doctor, It's just that... Well, healing wasn't really what I had in mind when coming here." You shake your head, dark hair moving with you, creating a curtain around your face.

"And why is that Y/N?" He folds his hands in front of him and tilts his head questioningly.

"Because I'm fine." He cocks his head in interest, He almost has a bird-like way of moving, you note discreetly. "I am not how most people would be after seeing the things that I have seen." You elaborate. "I'm really only here to humor my mother Dr. Lecter, and maybe organize my thoughts a bit. My mother does not have to know that I am here under false pretenses."

"When you say you are fine Y/N..."

"I mean that I'm not hurt. In fact, I'm perfectly normal. Invigorated almost." He smiles, surprising you.

"From witnessing a murder?"

"Well, when you say it like that..."

"It sounds as if you were intrigued by what it is that you saw." He leans forward, eyes darker than they were before. He looks like he is studying you, every inch of you. You shift uncomfortably in your chair. "You said before, that you remember your sister's blood on the concrete. How it looked, running down the sidewalk. What a strange detail to focus on. Of all things, it is interesting that it is the blood that you remember with such clarity."

You don't know what it is he's getting at, noticing that the smile he's wearing is rather unnatural for what it is he just heard. Was he really suggesting that you liked the things you saw that day of the murder? or the day of your sister's death?

"You did like it didn't you? Don't be afraid of that. That feeling is what is keeping you from drowning in the sorrow." You stand up fast, knocking a box of tissues to the floor that had been on the table beside you.

"Why would you say that?" you give him an accusing look, eyes practically on fire.

"Did I make you angry? I apologize for that. It was not my intent." He stands up and holds a hand out to steady you. He towers over you, and realizing just how much bigger his body was than yours excites you, but also sends a ripple of fear through your body. He could probably crush your spine like a toothpick if he wanted to.

You slowly lower yourself back in your chair.

"I would be very grateful for your side of the story Y/N."

Now it was your turn to talk, the part you had been dreading the most. You tell him all that you remember about that night nearly 3 months ago, the night your world lurched sideways. You see it all again, The bloodshot crazed eyes of the dead ram, it's head torn off and placed over the head of another; human. You here the guttural growling, the high pitched screech sounding like it came from a dying animal, right at the edge of hearing. You see all the viscera again, the blood, the gore. Just thinking about it sets your heart racing with excitement. You try to push down the feeling, replace it with something else. Fear, depression. Anything.

When you are finished Doctor Lecter nods.

"Thank you for that Y/N. It couldn't have been easy, reliving that all again." He stands up and offers you his hand for assistance standing. You take it, confused as to just how much time had gone by. You were surprised to learn that you had been there nearly an hour, your session all but come to an end.

When you reach the door, Lecter is already there, staring curiously at you with deep eyes and a faraway look.

"Until next time, Y/N." He takes your wrist, bending, and bringing it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. Your breath catches in your throat, not for the first time today. You can feel the sparks flying between the two of you, electricity flowing from your hand into his, or maybe it's the other way around. He gives it a light squeeze and lets go, opening the door to the stylish waiting room.

On your way out of the building, you think of Lecter's words again. "You liked it didn't you?"

They echo in your head as you wrap your coat tighter around your slim frame. And though he had told you everything that was said stayed in his office, those words follow you all the way back to your apartment- and they don't seem to be leaving anytime soon.


	2. Coq Au Vin

The bitter smell of sickly sweet solvents and dry canvas wash over you as you open the door to your studio apartment. The smell is familiar, bringing you back to cozy nights hunched over canvas stretchers, surrounded by wood shavings and oil pigments. You conserve aging paintings for a living, a trade you learned from your Father after apprenticing with him for a few years. Now you have your own studio and a thriving business. You step inside, letting yourself take a deep breath before dumping your bag on the floor and shrugging out of your coat. Enveloped in the dry warmth your old space heater in the corner provided you slide off your shoes and make your way to the kitchen.

Ever since your appointment with Doctor Lecter, you have been feeling far away- it's almost dreamlike. You float through your apartment, his words marinating in your head the entire time. You put your keys away, turn on the coffee maker, take off your socks, change into warmer clothes, and feed your cat. It is like a dance, one that you've repeated countless times before, practiced, and mastered. Finally settling into an armchair with a cup of hot chamomile and honey you allow yourself to accept the feeling of security and safety that your things around you steadily provide.

That was until... you hear a knocking at the door, and boy does that wake you up.

It's 7:30 on a Sunday night, so who the hell would be knocking on your door at this hour? There is one idea that pops into your head as you make your way to the deadbolted door, but you push it down deep inside and look through your peephole. Unlike what you immediately thought, it is not a crazed serial killer, but your good friend Beverly Katz.

The two of you had bonded as soon as you met, quite uncoincidentally on the same day as the gruesome murder you had witnessed only three weeks before. Seeing Bev's face sends a shock through you, launching you back to that night where you first met.

~Flashback~

You were sitting down on the cold wet concrete, a heavy wool blanket draped around your shoulders. The EMTs had tried to get you to stand and sit in the ambulance, but you had refused to budge, insisting that you weren't injured. This, of course, was a lie. You had sustained what at the time felt like a major head injury, a twisted ankle, and more than a few broken ribs, but still, you stayed firmly seated on the ground, just watching.

Your eyes trailed from the spilled puddle of red to the slumped form a few meters away from you, now crawling with detectives and special agents. taking samples, close-ups, scraping, rubbing, leaving no part unscoured. You watched as they placed little yellow markers with numbers on them all around the crime scene. It struck you then that that is what this place is now. Pictures of the blood-spattered alleyway would soon be floating all around the news, from phone to phone, shared, retweeted, and forwarded until it was painted vividly in everyone's minds. Your face would soon be all over the big screen, and headlines lit up in front of your eyes as you imagined it. "The lone survivor, poor girl" you could see it now. You could feel the heavy weight of their eyes, long before their gazes had even been cast upon you.

You felt a hand on your shoulder and when you turned, were met with a pair of brown eyes set in a kind looking face surrounded by a waterfall of black hair, dark as night. She gave you a shy sympathetic smile before introducing herself.

"Hi, I'm Beverly, a pathologist for the FBI. Your name is Y/N?" Her voice was soft and comforting, and you immediately felt like you had a friend here among these strangers. You nodded, almost too scared to use your voice, as it was raw from screaming.

"Yeah, I'm Y/N." She slowly sat down on the wet ground next to you, It must not have been too comfortable, but you could tell she was just trying to keep you as calm as you could be at this moment. This surprised you, and yet made you feel more comfortable, being close to someone like her.

"I can't imagine what you are going through, and I don't think anything I have to say will help... But I thought I'd come over here anyway, offer some comfort." She gave you a half-smile.

Originally you had hated all the looks of pity that you had gotten, always have since you were young, But coming from her it was different. It made you feel safe, In a way that you hadn't in a long time. Before you knew it you were both talking about what had happened. The other officers hadn't been able to get a word out of you, all they had was evidence and one close-mouthed witness shivering with fear, and this woman had been able to get the whole story in under 10 minutes. Beverly made you feel more than a victim, she made you feel like her friend.

~Present~

After that night you and Beverly had been fast friends, going out for coffee, shopping, hiking, and one of Bev's favorite past times, bar hopping. You guess that it's probably what she's here for, but looking closer you see her smile at the peephole and hold up a bottle of wine. You let go of a breath realizing she wasn't going to try and drag you to happy hour at the gay bar "Power Bottom". Opening the door with a relieved smile you immediately give her a hug, feeling entirely grateful for her friendship.

"Hey, chica!" She reciprocates your hug, giving you a light squeeze before sliding past you into the warmth of your apartment. "So..." She starts and you jump in to finish.

"So- Wine first?" She smiles knowingly and hands you the bottle of cheap Malbec, heading to the kitchen to get a couple of glasses. You set the wine on the counter and take a seat at the island waiting expectantly for all of Bev's latest gossip- she was always on top of things like that.

After the wine is poured and Bev has caught you up on all the latest, (Zeller's seeing a new girl, It's going pretty well only Bev thinks she's way too good for him and could do so much better) What's going on at work, yadda yadda yadda and all the rest. You aren't really listening as girly gossip is not your strong suit at all. It's just nice to hear her talk for a while, and you can tell she really needs to blow off some steam.

When all is said and done however she gives you a serious look, not one that Beverly would normally let anyone see.

"How are you doing Y/N?" She stops her leaning on the counter and settles onto a stool next to you, now at eye level.

"I'm fine." It isn't a total lie, you ARE doing a lot better than before... at least physically.

"You went to see Dr. Lecter today right? How did that go?" She asks. You had known that she would want all the gritty details of the day, but you aren't especially inclined to give them to her. 

"It was fine," You shrug. "I guess it was a little strange, I'm not used to talking about myself so much..." You trail off and she gives you an expectant look but doesn't push you to say more.

"Well if you want to talk about it I'm always here." She gives your hand a squeeze then takes a small sip from her glass. "On a much lighter note, what did you think of the Doctor? So handsome right?" She flashes a cheeky smile and you giggle.

"Yeah, I guess... If you like that sorta thing." She laughs aloud throwing her head back, her long dark hair swaying to one side.

"Oh come on Y/N, even a blind person could see, the guy is PURE sex." Your mouth drops open in shock and you shove her with your free hand.

"Bev!" You laugh loudly when she shrugs her shoulders sheepishly.

"What can I say? I've got a taste for class- and that guy? He's as classy as they get." You can't help but agree, looks-wise the man is a sex god, (The things those perfect lips could do...) But you are suddenly brought back by his words rattling around in your brain once more. "You liked it..." he had said.

Your look must have gotten darker because a second later she asks: "What's wrong?"

You tell her you are fine but you can see the look of doubt in her brown eyes. Before she leaves that night (thinking it unfair you were "kicking her out" before 10 pm) that serious look comes back on her face.

"I want you to meet someone Y/N. There's a guy I work with, his name is Will." Your stomach immediately started to feel sick thinking that she was trying to set you up with a guy... something you were totally not ready for. A part of you even gets a little angry that she would suggest something like that a mere three weeks after the incident. Your fears are quelled however when she reassures you that it isn't anything like that. "He's a special agent Y/N, not FBI, but he works with Jack Crawford in Behavioral Science. They bring him in whenever they get too stumped... Which is all the time." She laughs at her own joke.

"I don't know Bev..." She holds up her hand to stop your protests.

"Trust me Y/N, I think you'll find him really helpful. He's kind of special... He's this ability to empathize with psychopaths. They call him Crawfords Prodigy. Why don't you sit in on one of his lectures? I think you might find it useful. It'll help you understand what we're doing to catch this guy, and maybe you could relate to him a bit. He's seen more than his fair share of violence."

You shrug. "A special agent? I don't know... I feel like I've talked to enough people about this already..." You trail off quietly thinking to yourself. Why would Bev recommend this guy to you? It sounds like she doesn't even know for sure what it is he does.

"Just a quick look Y/N. Quantico, presentation room 108B- One visit and I'll shut up about it. I just think that talking to him would be good for you. He sees more than most people, there's a chance he might find something useful that could put this guy away. One warning though, He's not a fan of eye contact. So steer clear of that if you want him to like you." Before you can even respond she's turning the handle, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek and scuttling out the door.

You go to sleep that night, (your black cat Marlowe asleep in the crook of your neck) thinking of the way things used to be before it was fear that controlled your life. As you drift from consciousness you here Hannibal Lecter's voice once more... "You liked it... You liked it......."


	3. Bouillabaisse

It's exactly two days after Beverly's visit that you decide to take her advice. Moving through the throngs of students making their way all across campus you begin to wonder if all this hassle would even be worth it. You'd had to take a cab across town which you already hate doing, and now you have to navigate the sprawling campus set out before you with absolutely no idea of where to go. You had tried to ask someone but everyone seems to be in an extreme hurry, FBI trainees in their official jackets and black sweats smelling of gunsmoke and freshly mowed grass cross in front of you at every turn, no one stopping to help the confused visitor.

You finally reach the main administration building to get some help from an advisor when you feel a cool hand on your shoulder sending you whirling around to face the person before you. You know Jack Crawford in an instant- His unique features and stocky build giving his authority and position away immediately. A brief moment of recognition flits through his eyes sending a wave of wrinkles across his smiling face. It is becoming more and more apparent that Jack had been aging prematurely, but from what, you cannot say.

"Hello, Jack." You smile warmly up at him.

"Miss Y/N, To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He seems pleasantly surprised. You had always liked Jack, he is simple to understand and is always quite polite to you. You assume that he found you attractive, not only from a physical point of view but professionally as well.

"What can I do for you? Visiting Katz? She's down with Pryce and Zeller in Path-Lab 3, couple new bodies in from last night." He puts his hands into his pockets and looks at you with a strange amount of curiosity that makes you feel like you are being examined under a microscope- not a great feeling. Students and teachers alike are moving past you in constant currents, two rocks in a river you think, Though Jack makes no move to get out of the way. "Homicide late last night. Three casualties." He explains when you tilt your head to the side.

"Yikes." Is all you say. You aren't really in the mood to discuss murder today... another reason why you would be staying far away from the Path-Lab. "I'm actually not here for Bev today. I'm listening in on one of your teacher's lectures." You can tell from the way his face changes that he knows at once who you are referring to. 

"Is it Graham?" he asks looking away.

"Yes. Beverly said talking to him might help. I'm not sure how though, I've already told everything I know to the other agents." There's a flicker of fear that darts across his face then, but you can't quite place the reason for it. "That bad, huh?" You smile teasingly.

"How about I walk you down there?" He says, obviously brushing off your question. However, you pay it no mind, coming to terms with the fact that you won't get any more information about the man in question. "Considering Graham's on the other side of campus I'd say you're more than a little lost." 

You smile, welcoming his offer. "Thanks, Jack. I'd be glad for your help." He gestures for you to continue walking and you fall into a steady pace beside him.

"Is there anything new about The Minotaur?" You ask hesitantly, not sure if you even want the answer. The Maryland Minotaur is what the media had decided to call the person responsible for the rash of brutal murders in the last three months. There had been four more, after the one that you had witnessed and survived. The name bothers you to say the least. It's one of those titles that strikes fear into the mortal hearts of men, yet one that also makes killing look... glamorous. You hate the way the media always Hollywoodizes murderers. You can tell that Jack agrees, from the way he winces when he hears you say the name.

"Nothing new yet Y/N, I'm sorry." He reaches up to swipe a hand over his tired-looking face and sighs. "Whoever he is, he's covering his tracks better than most. His crime scenes are always spotless. No fingerprints, hairs, nothing. We did get some small wefts, seemingly from the bull head, but we knew about that already from your account." You nodded, trying not to let your disappointment show. 

"Don't worry Y/N. We'll catch him eventually. Either he'll make a mistake or Graham will find something we haven't yet. He's got a knack for catching the monsters." That stops you in your tracks.

"It was you wasn't it?" You cross your arms and give Crawford a stern look, and he gazes downward sheepishly. "You asked Beverly to convince me to come here." You aren't all that angry. It's just like Crawford after all, to get someone to do his dirty work for him. And you know that his reasons are in fact, justified. If talking to this Will Graham got you closer to catching the Minotaur, then Crawford would make sure it happened, Even if it causes you some mild discomfort.

"I'm not angry." You clarify, and he looks relieved, a half smile forming on his lips. "I am wondering though Jack, what made you think I wouldn't come if you had asked me yourself?" You can tell he regrets his decision immediately, and that he's surprised you caught on so fast to his little scheme.

"You don't miss much, do you Miss L/N." You keep your grim gaze rigid, and he sighs. "Well, to be honest Y/N, I figured that you would want to stay as far away from this as you could possibly get." He puts his hands in his pockets and tilts his head to the side, possible wondering if he was correct after all.

"Believe me, that's high on my list of priorities. But so is catching this guy." He nods. "And if Mr. Graham can help you to do that, then by all means." You gesture to the building Jack was leading you towards and he picks up speed again, resuming his steady pace towards your inevitable displeasure.

"I thought it would sound better coming from Katz, since you two seem to be so close nowadays." You nod beside him.

"The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry." You recite, and he chuckles. 

"A literary buff, are you?" He says and you smile.

"I am nothing if not pedantic, Jack." This makes him laugh as he opens the door and you step inside. 

He leads you to a large lecture room but stops just outside the closed entrance.

"I think it would be better if you went in alone Y/N." He says, instantly making you more apprehensive of this whole thing.

"Are you sure?" You ask nervously. "I don't have a visitors badge or anything..." You trail off but Jack is quick to reassure you.

"You'll be fine. Anybody who gives you any trouble will have to answer to me." This makes you smile again, but doesn't entirely quell your nerves. "Oh and Y/N, I must caution you; he's not the biggest fan of eye-contact." He says before turning away. He nearly repeats Beverly's warning, and thankfully so, as you had almost forgotten.

"Consider me forewarned." You say as he begins to walk away from you. You turn towards the door to the classroom, and hesitantly reach out to open it.

Here goes nothing. You think as your heart nearly pounds out of your chest. Despite your growing fear, you plaster on a brave face as you enter the cool and dimly lit room.


	4. Soupe à L'oignon

Will Graham sits alone in cool, semi-darkness with his head in his hands. He sighs, but you can tell it is caused by a private matter and not out of exasperation at your presence. Still, you feel guilty for having interrupted his sensitive moment. You feel as if you have just walked in on something incredibly critical. The air is practically alive with a deeply mysterious intelligence, one that you can feel emanating from him as soon as you enter the room.

He doesn't look up at the sudden noise, perhaps he doesn't even hear it, too lost in thought perhaps, but this is just as well. You don't want to admit it, but the chance to observe him in his natural habitat just seems too good to be true. You watch. 

He runs his hands through his chestnut brown curls, and you blush, realizing just how handsome he really is. He takes off his reading glasses and runs a hand over his face tiredly. It's dusted with a dark stubble, and as your gaze traces his face you notice his blue eyes blinking curiously at you then, without saying a word- As if he's not sure that you are really there.

You clear your throat timidly, feeling as though you need to explain yourself. You nervously stutter out an, "Um, Hi," with a tiny wave. "Sorry... I'm uh, I'm Y/N. Y/N L/N." His eyes go wider, and you can tell that he knows exactly who you are, and maybe even what you're here for. You aren't surprised of course, as your name has been plastered to the front of every newspaper in Baltimore for months. 

He takes an awkward breath, and looks away from your eyes. You instantly remember what Jack and Bev had told you, and turn your gaze to... anywhere else in the room, really. 

You decide the large projection screen just behind him and above his head is as good a place as any, and not too evident that your intentions are to avoid eye contact. He notices of course, you can tell by the way he chuckles softly and shakes his head.

"So Crawford briefed you, did he?" He says, his voice like wood crackling on a fire, and you smile.

"I'm that obvious?" You ask in return and meet his gaze- an action you decide is worth the risk, as you'd already been busted. Not to mention the fact that any chance to look at those extraordinary blue eyes again sounds pretty good. 

To your surprise, he doesn't look away. At least, not at first. You are given another glorious chance to admire his ocean blue orbs once again, and are stunned with just how intense and... sensitive... they are. They hold a deep sadness as well, one you didn't expect from this man.

He clears his throat awkwardly, and looks away first, though his eyes flit back and forth from yours while he speaks.

"It's not you, per se. It's always obvious... for me at least." He says carefully and you nod, at a loss for words, though the silence is not uncomfortable. His eyelashes flutter as his eyes dart from yours, to the door, the desk, his hands, anything. 

They go to meet yours once again and catch a quick glimpse of you tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, not noticing his gaze. Unknowingly to you, Will's overactive imagination will never fail to provide him with vivid and sometimes phantom visions, like his hand tucking your hair behind your ear, instead of your own. He could feel his calloused fingers twine in the soft strands, your sweet floral scent filling his nose... You notice him looking then, and the fantasy is gone. And he blushes. 

You begin to wonder silently if this behavior is normal for Will Graham, deciding it is of course far too vain to assume he's acting like this simply because of you...

But of course, this is exactly the reason. Will Graham is a good man. A good man with strange gifts and an odd yet enticing set of mannerisms. To be blunt, Will Graham is cute as hell. Yet he is also different, and unknown. Women judge him as they would a possible threat, or their next big project. 

But you- this woman who just came out of nowhere, perfectly courteous and sweet, treating him like a person, and not at all like someone who needs any fixing. He could tell that you genuinely cared if he was comfortable around you or not, cared what he thought of you. 

You were just too good to be true. And well... irresistible really. Will knows deep down, after exchanging not even 15 words with you, that he wants you, in every way... and it frightens him to say the least.

You clear your throat awkwardly and look away from him, a deep blush creeping up your cheeks, similar to his. 

"So... I take it you know who I am?" You ask cautiously, and he nods, not meeting your eyes.

"I'm sure everyone in Baltimore knows who you are, Y/N." Hearing him say your name was like hearing it for the hundredth time from the mouth of a deeply loved one, which is odd, because Will Graham is a stranger to you. "So, uh... What can I do for you?" He asks as he motions for you to pull over a chair and sit.

You do just that, grabbing and setting up a metal folding chair from off to the side. You feel much less nervous sitting at eye level with him. It makes you feel more like equals, and less like strangers.

"Well Mr. Graham, I was actually hoping you could tell me." You can tell that he's not used to such a formal title, and he tells you as much.

"Please, call me Will." He says softly, and you try out the name, bringing forth a sweet smile from him at hearing his name on your lips.

"So Will, is it true? Jack tells me that you have the ability to empathize with my would-be Killer. He says that it's how we'll catch him." You say and he raises one eyebrow in a quizzical look that couldn't have been more adorable. You know at once what it is that has caught him off guard, and you blush.

"We?" He asks, just as you knew he would.

"When I say we..." You trail off and he chuckles in that charming way you've already noticed he has.

"So Jack's roped you into this as well I see." His eyes flick up to meet yours with a grim smile. "He's good at that."

"Well, I wouldn't say "roped in" exactly... I would have volunteered but Jack tricked me into this a little sooner than I would have liked." He nods and watches as you tuck another strand of hair behind your ear. It was always coming loose and he notices how you nod your head and fidget when you're nervous. 

Your eyes meet his for merely a moment before you remember Jack and Beverly's words and quickly look away. He chuckles and shakes his head saying "You really don't have to try so hard... for me, Y/N." 

This surprises you, and you're sure that it shows on your face because his mirrors how you feel. 

"Well of course I do..." You say, a little louder than you had intended. "I only mean... I don't want you to be uncomfortable..." You trail off again and he starts to laugh, much to your surprise. 

"You just survived a brutal attack from a crazed serial killer, and you're worried about offending me? A complete stranger?" You look at him curiously.

"Well we're not strangers anymore are we, Will?" You smile, and he clears his throat awkwardly, looking away to shuffle a few papers around on his desk before finally clasping his hands on top.

"So... are you offering to help?" He asks and tilts his head to the side. 

"Yes... theoretically?" You say. "I'm just... not sure how much help I can be." 

"Well, I'm sure I can be the judge of that, right?" He smiles and his eyes crinkle in the cutest way. It makes you blush when you realize just how much his good looks are actually affecting you. He just had to be hot... You think grimly to yourself. A crush is the last thing you need, but when he asks; "So... can I buy you a coffee?" You find yourself returning his easy smile with a resounding "yes."


	5. Tavë Kosi

You watch from your seated spot in the corner of the cafe as Will takes your drinks from the barista with a quiet "thank you" but doesn't turn back towards you just yet. He hesitates for a moment, and you aren't quite sure why, though when he turns and sees you watching, he gives you a small crooked smile and heads back your way. You take the second coffee from his hand, your fingers grazing his rough ones for only an instant and strangely, curiously... your heart skips a beat, as it had when you were in Doctor Lecter's office.

He sits down across from you and focuses on taking the lid off his coffee, an action, you guessed was based solely on his desire not to have to look at you. Part of you thought that maybe he just didn't want to make any unnecessary eye contact... the other part however actually dared to hope that maybe he was as flustered by your looks as much as you were of his.

You shake off the thought and begin the process of cooling off your own steaming cup, bringing it to your mouth to blow on its contents. You don't notice how Will's eyes are drawn to your lips, or the stray lock of dark brown hair that falls from behind your ear.

You continue in comfortable silence for a few moments, not speaking, just sipping at your drinks, and pretending not to notice each other's eyes. Finally, Will clears his throat and asks;

"So, um... how long have you lived here in Baltimore?" He was going to add about how the newspapers specified that you were a "long time resident" but he thought that if he hadn't scared you off already, then that would do it. Though to him, you don't seem at all upset by the question.

You do think it is an odd one though, and one so incredibly casual that it shouldn't seem strange, but it does. You answer quickly, feeling like your response had been rehearsed many times over.

"Um, 12 years now I think." And he nods, keeping his eyes glued to what must have been a very interesting tabletop. There's an awkward pause as he perhaps waits for you to elaborate.

"If you don't mind me asking, where did you live before exactly?" He looks at you curiously and for some unknown reason, your face flushes. Maybe it's simply at the thought of Will getting to know you personally, something you hadn't thought would happen. Or maybe it was just the novelty of talking to someone as handsome as him. "It's just, uh, Your accent. I can't quite place it."

"Oh." You say and laugh. "Louisiana. Real close to New Orleans too." You take another sip of your tea as you try to avoid meeting his gaze. "I'm actually surprised you noticed. I've been trying to kick it for years, but it just won't go." Your face is turned away from him, towards the window, but you think he smiles.

"No it's nice.... I like it." You look at him and see that he is smiling, though his eyes are on the ground so he doesn't see you blush. You clear your throat and decide to move on from the subject.

"I moved here when I was 13, to live with my Dad. He passed away 2 years ago." You trace your finger along a circular coffee stain on the surface of the table, smiling sadly to yourself. It used to be harder to talk about your father, but now you actually enjoyed any chance to remember his great big bear hugs and the way his eyes would come alive when he talked about painting.

"Oh... I'm sorry." He says, surprisingly genuine. You'd heard the same statement many times before but were startled by how candid Will sounded. Most of the time you'd heard that phrase it was followed by an obligatory silence or an awkward cough or two. But from Will, you only receive a compassionate front, unyielding is his simple sincerity.

"It's okay, really," you smile at Will, "He lived a full life. And he was never one to be frightened by death." You say, truthfully. Even towards the end he was only ever positive, and where most people found bitterness in their deaths, he found peace. 

"How did he, um..." He trails off awkwardly and you almost laugh at his inability to say the word "die." For someone with his occupation, you don't expect him to be so sensitive about the topic, but here he is, averting his eyes and trying not to draw attention to the fact that your father is in fact, dead.

"Pancreatic cancer." You say rather nonchalantly and he nods grimly. "It was a long time coming really, wasn't that much of a surprise." You shrug. "He left me his business when he died. And his studio." Will looks over at you and raises an eyebrow. Maybe he hadn't taken you for an artist, but that's no surprise. You'd been told often that you don't look the type.

"I conserve old paintings." You explain before taking another sip of your tea. "My dad taught me how to do it before he died. Painting too. He was really good. I'm not nearly as talented as he was."

"I bet you're exaggerating." He says and you laugh, shaking your head and looking down at the table.

"Well, maybe just a little. But it is true. My paintings could never compare to his." You shake your head just thinking about all of his old portraits and landscapes that had remained in your attic since he died. Maybe later tonight you'd think about bringing a few of them down to look at, if not all then maybe just a few of your favorites.

He had this piece he called "Waiting for Augury," a fauvist piece depicting a withered old man sitting defeated at a bus stop in the rain. It's bright unnatural colors contrasted highly with the depressing expression of the man and the bleak atmosphere that his surroundings provided. It was your favorite, simply for the way it made you feel when you looked at it, that hopelessness is all but unwavering, but sorrow is not something that lasts forever.

You thought that Will would like it too, and you almost told him about it before thinking twice. You often get ahead of yourself when talking about painting, and seem to forget that not everybody finds it as intriguing and absorbing a topic as you do. However, he doesn't seem to mind, and when you look at him to see if you're actually boring him as much as you think you are, you see that instead, he looks pleasantly surprised. Like he hadn't thought you'd have such strong opinions about art, but then again, you had only just met.

"I bet they're better than you think... I wouldn't know, of course, I'm no artist like you. But uh, they say its true for most." The words stumble out of him as he struggless with where to look. He smiles shyly at you before returning his gaze to the steam coming up from his cup.

You smile to yourself and blush once he looks away, secretly pleased at his use of that term. It had taken years for your own mother to be content with the fact that you'd chosen your father's lifestyle, and to hear yourself described as an artist so casually is always nice.

You turn your head to look out the window, mirroring his own position. From here you can see right across the street to Hogan's Alley, the Academy's firing range. You look over at Will and see his eyes trailing the students as they dart to the ground, under fire from a fake open shooter. His eyes narrow as he takes another sip of his coffee, his highly trained gaze probably picking out all the mistakes and flaws of the young new agents to be.

"You were an agent, werent you." You say softly, picking at the edge of your napkin, not raising your gaze to see if he had even heard you. You know he can tell it isn't a question, and he chuckles as you glance upwards to see him looking at you curiously, brow crinkled like it had been when you'd first found him alone in his dark classroom, deep in thought.

"Did Crawford tell you that?" He asks as his eyes narrow humerously. You shake your head, a little embarassed that you'd have to explain how you knew.

"Your eyes told me that." You admit, and his smile slowly fades into a look of confusion.

"The way you look at them." You explain, gesturing out the window, across the street to the trainees in their brand new windbreakers. "Like you've been one of them before." He smiles slightly, perhaps impressed with your assumption, or at least flattered by your attention.

"You see a lot." He says meeting your gaze long and hard. All traces of humor now gone from his face.

"Sometimes too much." You state matter of factly as you look down to take another sip of your coffee. He chuckles, almost sadly, like maybe he could identify with your feelings. "So?" You cock an eyebrow at him, and he nods, laughing softly.

"You're right, I was one of them. Never an agent though, I didn't pass the psych evaluation. Too unstable." You nod understandingly, watching him watch the trainees across the street with quick and itelligent eyes.

"Well, don't feel too bad about it. So was I." You can tell this surprises him as he meets your gaze suddenly and raises his eybrows. You nod again and smile, confirming that he had in fact heard that right. "I made it into the academy fresh out of college, with a double major in criminology and law enforcement. I was even top of my class too. I wanted to work in Behavioral Science of course, beneath The Guru himself. But I never made it." You shrug sadly, clutching your coffee cup tightly with two hands to take a sip. You don't glance up to see if he's looking at you, but feel his gaze without ever needing to. He waits patiently for you to finish.

"My dad had just gotten sick, and I became such a mess. I threw myself into work and nearly killed myself trying to keep busy." You sigh, tracing your finger around the rim of your paper coffee cup. "By the time my evaluation rolled around, I didn't even stand a chance. They rejected me that very day." You smile dryly at him. "I sent a letter to Jack to try and explain myself, but he never responded."

"You knew Jack, before all this?" Will asks and you shake your head no.

"I'd only met him a couple of times while I was in training. Honestly, I was terrified of him." This makes him laugh, and the sound makes you smile in turn. "After I was rejected, I just went back home to take care of my dad. I didn't want to bother with a desk job. I knew what would happen if I got labeled a secretary, and I'd be damned before I was working for anyone else but Jack Crawford, or myself." Will smiles sadly, letting his gaze drift from yours before he looked for too long.

"So you gave up your dream." He says softly, and you can tell he didn't mean it in any negative way, he was just stating a matter of fact. Still, it stings to hear out loud.

"My dad always dreamed about me taking over the family business, so I guess I traded one dream for another. Just not mine." You shrug again and lace your hands together in your lap, staring at them intently.

"I think I know now, why Jack wanted us to meet." He says and you look up to see him staring thoughtfully out the window once more.

"Why?" You ask as his blue eyes capture yours, leaving you practically breathless.

"Because he thinks we're the same."


	6. Vichyssoise

When you'd first met Jack Crawford as a trainee, young and bright as a brand new penny, you had been eager to earn his approval, and all but certain that you would never receive it. You were immensely surprised however when he approached you directly to offer you his congratulations at having made the program. He wished to see great things from you. He had smiled warmly, and it hadn't quite reached his eyes. His hands were also warm and rough, and they shook slightly when he spoke. You had thought that maybe he'd been visiting his friends in the fridge a little too often, a habit you're glad he's now seemed to have broken.

Since then you had known Jack Crawford as a callous, two faced, single minded, autocratic son-of-a-bitch. Part of you does of course consider this overall opinion of him to be rather harsh, the part of you that was eager to think of him as a surrogate father who's attentions you would senselessly strive to hold. The other part of you has since come to recognize that the "peculiar cleverness" he possesses has become quite tiring, having always been at the expense of others younger, and more vulnerable.

When you were a trainee you'd shared a dorm with a nice girl named Miriam Lass. You had only known her for a short time, but even so you came to appreciate her as family. She'd wash your laundry sometimes without ever asking, and fold it too. She was a first rate study buddy, and perhaps one of your favorite qualities out of the many you found in her; she was almost entirely unnoticeable.

You didn't know if it was her size or demeanor, or perhaps a combination of the two, that made her so inconspicious. She was simply quiet as a mouse and just as vigilant. She was always presenting you with new bits of gossip that you just ate up together. Something she'd heard in the laundry or the locker room, just simply standing in a corner somewhere. Something like; "Did you hear Jimmy Price is GAY?" or "Guess who Johnny Beers has been hooking up with?" She could never fail to make you laugh out loud. She was also the best trainee you knew, a fact that certainly never escaped Crawford's notice, who recognized her talent for good old fashioned espionage as soon as her file found its way to his desk.

He soon put her on the Chesapeake Ripper case after viewing her test scores and hearing nothing but good things from her instructors. Initially you had been jealous of her assignment, as everyone had been, but that soon gave way to swelling pride and a sense of justice. If anyone deserved to be Jack Crawford's prodigy, it was Miriam.

However over the next couple of weeks she took a major turn in a downward direction, losing an immeasurable amount of sleep and rationality. Her grades started dropping, and her instructors began to warn her with threats of being recycled, but she never stopped chasing after The Ripper. You were sure that she couldn't carry on for much longer, and suddenly, she didn't have to. Nobody knew what happened to Miriam Lass after her disappearance, and still don't, but one thing was for certain; You placed most of the blame on Jack fucking Crawford.

Once you knew Jack's game, it was easier to hate him. For a while at least. Until he brought you in to Behavioral Science to talk with him about Miriam, as any intimate knowledge of your missing roommate would be of great import in finding her, he had told you. And all at once, you forgave him. Forgave him of his illusions of superiority, or of mentorship. Forgave him of his borrowed wisdom and empty words of appreciation. You forgave him of Miriam, and of yourself, who lost more than a roommate the day she disappeared. Simply put, you would have done anything for him. You would have killed for him.

You feel bad for not being completely honest with Will about your relationship with Jack. The fact is, it had been Crawford who had recommended Dr. Lecter to you when you were recycled from Quantico, a referral you had wholeheartedly rejected at the time. You had told yourself therapy was for crazy people, and you were not crazy. You know now the gesture was meant to be a beacon of hope for you, a message that said your recycling was merely temporary, if you so choose. That Jack hadn't given up on you yet, and he hoped you'd get help and come back again fresh and ready to work for him once more.

You'd long since decided that just because you went ahead and used his referral doesn't mean that you would be crawling back to the FBI anytime soon. You'd already given up on that life, striving for perfection and recognition, desperate for advancement. You'd given up hanging off of Jacks every word, idolizing a man who barely knew that you were there, unless of course you were useful to him. You'd given up the stagnant, single minded life of the FBI trainee, and subsequently, given up any chance at finding out what happened to your dear friend Miriam Lass.

You'd be damned if that would ever be your life again, but it seemed you didn't have a choice. Jack has dragged you back to this place without a single regard for your well being, but instead of the anger you know you should feel, you are consumed with a comfortable nostalgia and burning desire to settle right down, and get back to it. Meeting Wills gaze you can't deny that getting back into the field has its own new appeal, and you know that if he asks you to help, you won't be able to say no.

Will's voice travels in and out as your thoughts race, though you catch some of what he's saying. You'd heard most of it before after all, how Jack will take advantage of any skill he finds useful, no matter the person, no matter the cost. You nod, trying to listen as he says;

"Jack seems to think my way of thinking, our way of thinking, is foolproof. Almost like magic. He doesn't quite understand us, or how to manage our imaginations, but it doesn't matter. As long as he catches his killer." You see his jaw clench as he talks, obviously more than a little displeased with Jacks careless but effective methods. "He singled you out just as he singled me out, and to him, "borrowing" our imaginations is easier than borrowing any other regular agent. He knows we're better than them." His eyes drift toward the window again, and you can see the thoughts spinning together behind his eyes.

You begin to realize, as you listen to Will describing Jack Crawfords obscure thinking in bringing you two together, that your wish to find out the identity of your masked assailant is quickly becoming more of a need than you ever thought it would. The familiar grip of ambivalence tightening around your heart, two halves of your brain fighting for dominance beneath a calm facade.

So lost in thought are you that you don't even hear when Will asks you if you want to head back.

"Y/N?" He says, and you look up suddenly broken out of your stupor.

"Hmm?" You answer and he chuckles, the sound causing a flattering blush to spread across your face.

"I asked if you wanted to head out? Get some air?" He smiles and lifts an eyebrow in what you know to be friendly concern. Maybe you had paled slightly, thinking about all of the reasons why you should stay far away from this case. You touch the side of your face with your fingertips without even realizing it, and he chuckles again.

"You're easier to read than most, Y/N." He pauses as he looks away from your gaze. "Maybe it just comes from our similarities." His eyes flit back towards you for half a second, before he gets up out of his chair with his coffee and waits politely for you to the do the same.

You exit the cafe, stepping out into the November chill, your steaming breath mingling with Will's as you walk side by side back towards the Academy.

"It's tiresome, isn't it?" You turn your head to look up at him as you walk. You hadn't really noticed before, but he stands a few good inches taller than you. He walks with his hands in his pockets, eyes darting from the sidewalk, to you, to the collection of buildings just ahead, and when he speaks, he often looks in the opposite direction from your face. It doesn't bother you though, and you answer easily, knowing almost exactly what he's referring to before he even has to tell you.

"What?" You ask, keeping your eyes to the ground.

"The affinity all trainees inherit for The Bureau. The..." He thinks for a moment, trying to find the right word. "Sympathy." You smile grimly and nod, knowing just what he means.

"You know what Jack always says; You fall in love with The Bureau, but The Bureau doesn't fall in love with you." The words make him chuckle, but they had attained a new meaning to you the day you were recycled, and ring in your head like a bell, reminding you of detrimental failings brought on by an inescapable future.

"Maybe it's a good thing. Honestly Y/N..." He starts to trail off but you look at him curiously. He sighs, probably deciding to just come right out with it. "You seem like the type of person who's just drawn to danger, wether knowingly or not. If not danger, then... as close as you can get."

"Are you trying to tell me that you're dangerous, Will?" You ask, thinking his words sound very much like a cryptic warning. You look over at him to find his eyes already searching yours. It always surprises you, eye contact with Will. Not because it is so rare, but because of how much it always seemed to stun you.

"Are you trying to tell me that you're drawn to me, Y/N?" He says, lifting an eyebrow, giving you a teasing smile. A charming crooked grin that nearly knocks the goddamned wind out of you, before you realize what you'd just said, and instantly start to stutter, face probably turning an embarrassing shade of crimson as your words stumble out of you. He just chuckles, shaking his head slightly.

"Don't hurt yourself Y/N." He says and you take a breath, giving him an awkward but grateful laugh. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ears, taking another shy look at him walking with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, and think you see him smiling to himself.

"Yes, is the answer to your question, by the way. The other one." You say, your composure gathered once more. "It does get tiring, but I suppose it's obligatory. It's impossible to sacrifice so much, for something you don't love." You pull your jacket tighter around you, suddenly feeling much too exposed.

"Do you miss it?" He asks as you both round a corner. You don't quite know where you're heading, but you let him lead, trusting his guidance more than your distant memories of navigating this place by yourself.

"I do." You answer honestly, looking over at him with a shrug. "Now more than ever." You add that last bit quietly, but you know he heard. You both stay quiet for a while, walking in a comfortable silence, just watching the bustle of the busy campus around you.

Suddenly he turns to you, stopping short with a look of seriousness that gave you a sick but eager feeling.

"Did you know that you and Kathleen Walker were not the first victims of The Minotaur?" You raise your brows, conveying a look that can only mean for him to explain immediately. "Her name was Charlotte Green. She was killed about a week before your attack, coming home from the airport late at night." Your eyes drift from his face, taking in every detail he gives you. You feel a job offer coming on, the advancement you'd been starving for since you'd been kicked out of The Academy. You know he can read the interest on your face, and he waits patiently until you look back towards him.

"She was buried three weeks ago, body released to the family. But there's pictures, and everything she had on her the night she died." He raises an eyebrow at you, and you look right into his crystal blue eyes, not bothering to try and avoid them at all.

"Show me." You say, and he leads you inside.


	7. Osso Buco

Entering the pathology lab in the basement of The Federal Bureau of Investigation at Quantico Virginia, can only be described as taking the first plunge into an ice cold bath, and those who do not at least hesitate outside its large frosted doors are less than human. Will politely gives you a moment to gather yourself and take a deep breath, averting his eyes before he opens the door for the both of you. You can't decide if this is for your benefit or his own. 

Inside it is cool and dry, the chill is like a long fingered hand creeping its way up your body, settling with its palm on your lower back, pushing you farther into the sickening white and gray. You hadn't stepped foot inside the collection of subterranean rooms in a little over a few years, yet still the feeling of the close stone walls pressing in around you is just as unsettling as it always had been. Not much had changed at all, and as you walk down a familiar stretch of hallway lit by unnaturally bright fluorescent lights you think to yourself how bizarrely institutional it is. You feel almost like a child headed to a dreaded dentist appointment, waiting for the inevitable tooth to be pulled.

As you walk down the hall you pass multiple rooms encased in glass, horrors exposed to any unfortunately curious onlookers, yourself of course cheif among them. You glimpse for a fraction of a second a post mortem in progress, a chest cavity being scrutinized by what appears to be a team of eager white coats, seemingly delighted by whatever answers they had found by opening up the poor stranger lying on a slab between them. You see a man in a long lab coat gesture excitedly to the dead man's chest, his hand disappearing and reappearing from inside the cavity to then point at a spot on the X-ray screen above their heads. The others in the room nod synchronously, looking away for not but three seconds to scribble down his analysis before raising they're hands with what you assume to be theories of their own. Probably students, you think. You look again, sure now that you are the only one who noticed the dull smudge of red his finger left behind on the screen.

Will leads you to a room in the very back, past the morgue with all its shining metal "lockers", (as the trainees and instructors disturbingly like to call the refrigerated holding cells for bodies and organic evidence.) to a room shadowed by large filing cabinets with one large desk and an especially ancient-looking computer. He looks around rather awkwardly producing a folding chair from the corner to place it next to the one in front of the computer. Everything looks quite dated, and as he goes to open a dusty file cabinet you realize how different this room is with from rest of the department. It's like you have just walked through the threshold of time, and stepped into the 1980's. You look skeptically from the dinosaur of a computer to Will, who chuckles when he sees your face. 

"I know what you're thinking, and it does actually work." He rummages around in the cabinet for another moment, biting his lip, making your face heat up. He pulls out a collection of manila folders, held together by a large rubber band. "We won't need it though, not with these." He lays the folders on the desk, and turns on a desk light, bringing its focus to illuminate the name scrawled across the cover. Charlotte Green. 

You had memorized all the names of the Minotaur's victims, not out of guilt you told yourself, but simply because you felt it was your obligation. But this woman's name is foreign to you, and learning the horrors of her death feel almost wrong somehow. Your fingers move on their own however, sliding the file closer to you, ready to expose its secrets. You take a deep breath, not noticing Will's eyes on your face as you prepare yourself for the images you are about to see. The life and death of a woman you had nothing to do with. Will's hand covers yours before you can flip the cover, and you look up to see his eyes on yours. His mouth hardens into a thin line and he tilts his head to the side slightly, perhaps measuring your sensitivity to what you are about to see. 

"Are you sure about this?" He asks softly, the dim lights in the room casting shadows over his face, darkening his look more than it would have been naturally. You nod, grateful for his concern, but ready to get the first look over and done with. 

"I'm alright." You say while simultaneously ripping off the rubber band with a snap. You hope you don't come off too standoffish, but your'e sure he understands, having been in the same position multiple times himself. You flip the cover, beginning thankfully with a report on Charlotte's life before she was attacked, rather than the photos you were dreading. "Does it get any easier?" You ask, before you even realize the thought had formed in your mind. You look up and can see he's almost as surprised at the question as you are.

"I suppose it does... that's not necessarily a good thing though. This stuff should scare you, it makes you human." He gives you a small crooked smile before looking down towards the file, so he doesn't have to meet your gaze. Before you can respond someone walks into the room. 

The man from the post mortem you had glimpsed, who'd had his hand in a chest cavity only moments before, stops awkwardly in the doorway, his eyes on the two of you standing close together in the dark.

"Oh, sorry am I interrupting something?" He points back and forth from Will to you, with a gloved but bloody hand. Will sighs, but shakes his head no.

"It's alright, I'm just showing Y/N the file for Charlotte Green. Jack wants her to consult on this one." He gestures to the file between you on the desk and the man nods understandingly, obvious recognition forming in his eyes when he hears your name. 

"Oh, Y/N, Y/N L/N? The survivor?" He asks walking farther into the room, looking from you over to Will. You wince at the title, but aren't at all surprised, especially here, where murderers were just job opportunities, and victims were ones and zeros. Will must have noticed because he clears his throat, raising his eyebrows at the man, who promptly understands and quickly stumbles for an introduction, trying to take the focus off his question.

"Oh, well, I'm Brian, Brian Zeller." He offers his hand to you, and you almost take it before remembering. You just laugh and gesture to the gloves, saying "Nice to meet you." He smiles sheepishly and chuckles as he takes them off from the bottom, holding them politely behind his back while gesturing with his free hand towards the direction he just came from. 

"You know, I could pull those up on the big screen for you, if you like?" He smiles hopefully and raises his eyebrows, pointing to the collection of documents and photos on the desk behind you. His eyes you notice, never once stray from yours towards his colleague Will, who stands stiffly beside you. 

You glance briefly at the file over your shoulder and think that the lighting in one of the more latter-day rooms would be much more beneficial logically, but were tempted toward the idea of spending the afternoon in such close proximity to Will, in comfortable darkness and the blissful company of another autonomous intelligent mind. You deliberate for a moment, then smile and nod.

"That would be great actually." He brightens immediately, at your response, and turns to motion you into the room across the hall. "You sure you don't mind?" You ask following him out of the room.

"It's no problem, really." You turn to Will and shrug as Zeller leads you to a large brightly lit room. "I just finished my last autopsy report. I'm all yours." He adds, a little too confident to be entirely platonic, and Will raises his eyebrows at you. You smile, holding in a laugh while Zeller dumps his used gloves in a medical waste bin. 

He then goes over to the computer, typing away furiously until an image suddenly appears on the monitor. He uses a small remote to put the image up on the viewing screen. A vivid picture of a young woman and her orange tabby, sitting on what looks to be the back steps of a white colonial house. 

"Charlotte Green, age 26. Born August 15th, 1987 in Austin, Texas. Died September 24th 2019, Baltimore, Maryland."

Your breathe hitches in your throat, seeing the girl for the first time. Will places a hand on your arm, and you look over to see concern filling his eyes. You give him a small reassuring smile and look back towards the screen, closing your eyes to take a deep breath. You can do this. This is how we save them, Y/N. 

You open your eyes to notice several things at once. The young woman in the picture is tall and statuesque, with shoulder length blonde hair that could've put Farrah Fawcet to shame any day of the week. She had stunning hazel eyes, and as Zeller starts flipping through to more and more pictures you notice how in some lighting they almost appear blue. 

On one sloppy scan of a Polaroid photo titled Charlotte's Birthday, 1994 you tell Zeller to stop, squinting your eyes and moving closer towards the screen. The snapshot is of a seven year old Charlotte Green, Zeller says, and you nod, looking closely at the child's wide innocent smile and rosy cheeked face.

She was missing a front tooth, but her elated smile is carefree and complete. At her side is a shiny new cobalt blue bicycle done up with a big red bow. A Raleigh, you note, a ten speed. Her small hands are gripped tight to the handle bars, knuckles white as if she just can't wait to hop on and get to riding. 

Another click of the remote by Zeller and a new image appears, a 23 year old Charlotte in graduation cap and gown, holding a diploma proudly while posing for the camera. Her teeth, you note, are incredibly straight and whiter than most. You guess that she had braces when she was young, and possibly whitening treatments that tend to be rather expensive. You assume her parents were pretty well off, and the Ivy League college you see in the background of Charlotte's graduation photo only adds to your suspicions. 

"Her body was found 13 hours postmortem, by a pedestrian that just happened to hear her cellphone ringing while passing by the mouth of the alley." 

"All the victims were found in alleyways?" You ask, turning to Zeller who brightens at your attention. 

"Alleyways, untraveled side streets. Anywhere they wouldn't be found for at least 10 hours." 

"Except for Kathleen Walker... And me." He shakes his head, and you can tell he's already eager to share his theories with you.

"But you were a mistake." He says before quickly recovering with a clumsy "I mean, I don't think he planned on you being there." He shrugs and looks back to the screen as he clicks to another photograph.

"How much do you remember about that night, by the way?" He asks keeping his eyes on the screen so he doesn't see you wince. You had been worried that someone would ask that, as you were sure most everybody was under the impression you remembered everything. In truth, you could only remember so much, before the recollection would begin to fade into white noise, like an old television fizzling out of focus. When you were a kid you had called that the "Snowstorm channel" and it was often used by your father to describe how his mind felt during an especially mind numbing painters block. 

"Not much actually." You say quickly, deciding to get the truth out in the open before it becomes a problem later on. You can tell he's surprised but you don't wait around for his response, turning to Will instead.

"You have her belongings?" You ask and he nods.

"Just what she had on her when she was found." You nod, deliberating quietly.

"Brian, do you think you could...?" Will says, nodding with his head to the door, obviously wanting him to go and retrieve the evidence. It takes him a moment to understand but soon he scrambles out the door with a string of "yeahs" that leave you two laughing softly once he exits the room. 

When the quiet comes, and you meet his eyes, it isn't awkward. Not until his smile fades, and your face begins to blush at how his eyes bore into yours. Intense, and intelligent. You feel like he can see the purest part of your soul in your eyes, and as they search there, you think he finds it. You turn your face, hoping he doesn't notice the way you always seem to blush under his gaze.

"So what do you think?" He asks, gesturing to a new picture of Charlotte grinning happily atop a beautiful speckled horse, waving with her free hand. 

"She's very pretty." You say, thinking it's the understatement of the century. Charlotte Green probably made girls everywhere take major hits of their self esteem just by walking into a room. With hair like spun gold and skin exceptionally tanned, free from any blemish or imperfection. This girl is flawless. Was flawless, you remind yourself.

"Her mother said she loved to do beauty pageants. Even won a couple." He goes over to the desk and uses the remote Zeller left behind to flip to another picture of Charlotte in a tiara and beaded sash, smiling brilliantly with an arm-full of white roses. The sash reads Miss Austin Texas in an elegant and feminine scrawl. She's wearing a long gold gown that catches the light and sends it back into the camera lens, forever captured in a photo now tainted by loss.

"She was traveling back home from visiting her parents in Austin. She lived with her boyfriend in an apartment in the city. He told authorities she never made it home, but he didn't call the police until she was about 8 hours late, after he realized her phone was ringing, she just wasn't picking up." You nod, looking down towards the victim file Will had brought in from the other room. You quickly open it up, not letting your sensitivities get the better of you. You move past the photos of a young and happy Charlotte that you had already seen, and start work on analyzing the photos of her corpse.

Three were taken when her body was still untouched, giving a full view of her dank surroundings and horrifying wounds. You breathe in deeply when you arrive at the photos snapped just before the autopsy had been conducted, Charlotte Green pale and naked on a slab of gleaming metal in a room drenched with fluorescent light. There's a close up of her face, and you think back to the young girl standing next to the bicycle, full of life and brilliant color. All that color was leeched from her now, and if she hadn't looked dead before, lying lifeless in that alleyway, she certainly did now. Her eyes were stuck open, staring blankly up at a ceiling she wasn't seeing, iris's like bowls of curdled milk.

You turn back to the candid of the alleyway, looking closely at Charlotte's face. Her eyes are closed, but you clearly see the carefully applied mascara, and layer of faded but neat lipstick. It's smudged, just slightly at the left corner of her mouth. 

Zeller comes back into the room then, an armful of plastic evidence bags and one large pink suitcase. "We'll have to wait on clearance for the tox reports, but for now..." He says, laying the items all down on the table in front of you and Will, spreading them around. Together you sift through her plastic wrapped belongings while Zeller reads them off on a list.

You snap on a pair of latex gloves that Will hands you, normally you would have gone for cotton, but since all the items had been looked over already, you figure it couldn't hurt. You carefully lift her cellphone out of the bag and turn it on. It's a new model, sleek and thin. You assume Charlotte was all about trends.

The battery is low, but you have time enough to scroll through some of her pictures. You figure she'd bought it recently as there isn't much to look through. Even her text message threads are extremely short. You put it down and go back to the file, a sudden thought forming in your head as you look over the rest of the objects rather quickly.

"What are you thinking?" Will asks, setting down a collection of bills and various cards. You sigh, not sure if your theory is even worth sharing.

"Did she have a handbag?" You ask, looking from Zeller to Will, who lean in close on either side of you. Zeller gestures to the items strewn about the table, some still in their protective cases, others not.

"Everything she had on her at time of death is right here." You shake your head, staring down at the photo of a dead Charlotte Green, face still coated in subtle makeup.

"That can't be right." You say, continuing to shake your head disbelievingly. Zeller looks like he wants to argue, but Will shakes his head at him, unbeknownst to you. "Look at this picture here. Look at her face." You point, leaning over to show Will, looking up to meet his eyes, to see if he recognizes what you're getting at.

"Her makeup, see? She's wearing mascara, and lipstick too. Definitely." Sudden understanding dawns in his eyes and he begins to look around furiously in the items. You do the same, sifting through all Zeller had brought you, while he begins to question what you both were doing.

"Whoah, hey- I didn't get the memo, what are we looking for here?" He steps away from you both, giving you space as you wildly tear through the bags just as fast as Will, looking everywhere, under the suitcase and even under the table. You take a breath once you realize it's not there.

"Not here." You say matter-of-factly, and Will nods in agreement.

"Okay, can someone please tell me what we're looking for right now?" Zeller says throwing up his hands, clearly exasperated at being left out. You assume that he's used to being the center of attention in this sort of environment. 

"Here." You say and hand him the photo of Charlotte. "She has makeup on in these pictures. Faint, but it's there." He takes the photo and looks for himself.

"So she's got makeup on. What about it? She probably put it on before leaving her parents house." He tilts his head to the side confused and you sigh, not believing you have to explain something so elementary to an actual crime scene investigator.

"You don't think that's strange? A beauty queen like Charlotte Green? Traveling without a makeup bag, at least?" You find the sealed bag of toiletries in her suitcase and hold it up for Zeller to see. "The girl had three different types of moisturizer in here. I don't know about you, but I find it hard to believe she'd travel anywhere without at least a little stash of makeup."

"So you think she must have had a purse or something, a carry on bag that had her makeup in it?" Will asks and you turn to him, biting your lip and shaking your head.

"Maybe. It's far fetched..." You trail off quietly.

"Go on." He says, encouraging you to share your theory.

"I think she did have a purse, a handbag, something." You say quickly, more sure of it now than you were before. "She refreshed her makeup in the airport bathroom. Why wouldn't she? She knew she was meeting her boyfriend at their apartment, she wanted to look good for him after a four hour flight." Will thinks for a moment, head nodding in agreement. His forehead crinkles in concentration and your mind begins to go fuzzy again, thinking about how goddamned attractive he is.

"You think the killer took the purse?" 

"It's a possibility." You say. "We'll have to search the area again, to be sure."

"We'll need the go-ahead from Jack." Will says, setting down the file with a slap against the tabletop.

"No need." You hear from the doorway, and look over to see Jack sizing up you and Will working together from the corridor. "How soon can you leave?"


	8. Consommé

It is nearly 24 hours after your impromptu adventure to Quantico that you return to sit patiently once more in Doctor Lecter's tasteful waiting room. The man himself greets you with a polite smile as he opens the door to his office and lets you inside. It had been raining, a cold November drizzle that had soaked you through to the bone in just the 20 minutes you spent shivering on the way over. Your hair is only just starting to dry in the warm heat of Hannibal's lobby, and he notices immediately.

"May I?" He asks and you nod surprised, and he takes your coat gently when you turn your back. "It is nice to see you again, Y/N." He says as his fingertips lightly brush the tops of your shoulders in sliding off your long overcoat. You stutter out a polite greeting, flustered at his touch, and he chuckles as a vivid blush creeps up to settle on your face.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." He suggests and motions to his familiar intimate sitting area in the center of the room. He goes to his desk to retrieve your file, thicker than the last time you had seen it. "We have much to discuss today." He says matter-of-factly as he sits across from you and folds his elegant hands in his lap.

You would have smiled at his relaxed posture if you didn't see right through it. He is too sure of himself, too informed. You know at once that he'd been in touch with the Director of the Behavioral Science Unit.

"So you've been talking with Jack Crawford then?" You ask as you cross your arms and lean back in your seat, giving him a knowing smile.

"Jack is a close friend of mine, Y/N." Hannibal says laughing softly, perhaps in surprise that you'd caught on to him so fast. "Any information he may have shared with me relating to his new recruit is not out of the ordinary, and purely coincidental I might add." He was making a point to establish the fact that he'd never glean information about you on purpose, and though you can't say you're pleased about his choice of words in describing your relationship with Jack, you believe him.

"What did Jack tell you about his new recruit, If I may ask? Anything interesting?" You say, remembering that you hadn't told the Doctor much at all about your past as a trainee at The Academy. You want to know just how much he knows about you in that regard. He gives you a charming smirk in response to your question and you watch enraptured as he licks his bottom lip before answering.

"Only that you had an exciting day yesterday, would you like to tell me about it?" He opens your file and retrieves a collection of papers whose contents you do not see, and places them front and center in his lap. You would have thought that he was adding to some previous notes, if it hadn't been for his choice in writing utensil; A seemingly expensive silver plated sketching pencil, where previously he had made use of a regular fountain pen, a common choice among Doctor Lecter's elite circle of "high end" psychiatrists. You watch as he adds a few marks in various places, as if cutting up some last touches of a new work of art. His eyes flit to yours, waiting for your answer, and you look away quickly, hoping that he didn't catch you looking at his work too intently.

"It was... intense." You say, not sure how else to describe it. You shrug uneasily, suddenly unsure of where you should place your hands. You decide on balling them up tightly in your lap, worrying at a painters callous on your finger.

"Care to elaborate?" He asks, coaxing you further once more. You press your lips together, mentally preparing yourself to relive your experience at Quantico, and at what had greeted you and Will at Charlotte Green's death place. You take a much needed deep breath, and begin.

You tell him first of your meeting with Will Graham, a subject that surprisingly causes him to abandon his apparent note-taking, and to attend each of your words with extreme care. He leans forward in his chair the slightest bit, eyes filled with a lively intrigue that you don't quite understand.

It seems the subject of Will Graham is a substantial catalyst for you, and the words pour out of your lips in a steady and demonstrative rhythm. When you get to the part about Charlotte Green however, you stop short, wondering just how much you were even allowed to tell Dr. Lecter about her murder, considering it was not public information.

"I apologize, Doctor..." You trail off but he understand without you having to explain.

"It's alright Y/N. You can leave out the specifics if it makes you more comfortable." You nod, exceedingly grateful that he hadn't made you ask. The last thing you want to do is speak for Jack, and count yourself amongst his ranks so casually. You continue with your retelling of yesterdays events, leaving out the identity and cause of death for dear Charlotte as you go along, careful to relay each detail as exactly as possible.

"Jack was very insistent. He took the lead and ran away with it like an eager retriever." You say, following up your retelling of Jack's reaction to you and Will's discovery, holding in a laugh at your clever comparison. You imagine Crawford with a wagging tail and floppy ears, and somehow it feels more than accurate.

"Your lead, you mean." He corrects and you shrug, resigned to never know the absolving credit of unraveling Charlotte Green's murder. "You are sure you were the only one to notice the makeup? Very clever by the way." He adds and you can't help but smile at both his compliments and curiosity.

"I must have been. She wouldn't have been buried otherwise." You state, turning your gaze up to Hannibal's second floor library, deliberately avoiding meeting his gaze while under his intense observation. You can still feel the heated pressure of his attention on your skin, your hands, your neck. They flush, and burn sweetly with the feeling of his touch, though there is none.

"Do you think it was your feminine perspective that allowed you to see what Jack's team could not?" Hannibal asks, as your eyes return to his own scorching gaze. You ponder for a moment, and watch his pencil flick back and forth, making a light scratching sound that was pleasantly familiar.

"I can't imagine I was the only woman to glance at that poor girls file. And even if I was, I think it probably had more to do with his team's skill set than it did with mine." You say raising your eyebrows, and he actually laughs, abandoning his notes to fold his hands together in his lap and look at you intently.

"Y/N, do you resent Jack for bringing you 'out of the woodwork', so to speak, only when it was convenient for himself?" You think for a moment, deliberating his question seriously. You'd always thought Jack easy to read, but you'd never known how to describe him properly to others. All words said out loud, of or about Jack Crawford had to be said in wonderment or appreciation. Negativity had no business associating with his name. It would be different for others, outside of the isolated FBI orbit, sure. But to someone who'd gone through the motions of an FBI Trainee, it was impossible to speak ill of the man you were conditioned to idolize.

"If you asked Jack I think he'd tell you my 'coming out of the woodwork' was nothing short of Divine Providence. I don't think convenience had anything to do with it." It sounds rather hammy, but the doctor smirks once more and you know it is true. Jack couldn't possibly take credit for using you, especially when it was in service of the 'greater good'. Bringing you in on the Minotaur case was more coincidence than convenience, and more for the cause of public safety than his own interests.

"It must have been like a sign from God, seeing your name listed among the Minotaur victims. His chance to raise you from the ashes, a pheonix reborn." He says this slowly, poetically, and the artist in you appreciates it as such. It occurs to you that most of what Doctor Lecter says is poetry in and of itself, if not only for his melodic voice.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe you were 'the one that got away' for Jack?" He asks, and you laugh out loud, a sound that evidently draws an alluring smile from the Doctor. One that causes your laughter to freeze in your throat, and your smile to falter. You realize then how often it is that you're stunned by his simple actions, and the embarrassment comes soon after, washing over your face in hues of crimson and pink.

"I'm sure he doesn't think about me that much." You say shaking your head, quickly overcoming your distress. "I don't know about you, but sometimes I think Jack's easier to read than the newest Stephen King novel." He chuckles and nods in agreement.

"It will never seem like it to the untrained eye, and to most he'll remain a prominent figure of mystery and intrigue- But Jack Crawford is a pitifully open book." You chuckle, amused at first, until a question forms in the back of your mind that you can't shake. Its almost like Dr. Lecter can see it tormenting you behind your eyes, before it is ever given voice.

"Were you going to ask if I think the same of you?" He tilts his head to the side and you smile back at him sheepishly.

"I guess that's a question that answers itself, Hm?" You say dryly as you raise an eyebrow at him, and you can't help but notice that he looks a little impressed. You hope your wit amuses him, it's been so long since you've had the chance to gladly share it with somebody. The droll humor and dry sarcasm you'd favored but been without for so long was finally back, coursing through your veins, icy hot. Talking with Doctor Hannibal Lecter you realize now, is extremely empowering. And maybe that was the purpose after all.

You feel... above it all. Every topic of every discussion you'd shared with him, every person you'd ever referenced felt, somehow, beneath you in the moment. In the moments that you shared with Hannibal Lecter.

"I do want to know Doctor, do you think I am an open book for someone like Jack Crawford? Do you think I'm easy to read, for someone like... Will Graham?" You hesitate before saying his name, not at all sure why.

"You are eager to know what they think of you?" He tilts his head to the side slightly and raises an eyebrow, almost teasingly.

"Wouldn't you?" You ask, and he smirks the slightest bit, as if at some private joke you had just referenced.

"This is your therapy session, Y/N, remember?" He says chuckling softly and you nod, blushing at the sound of his laughter.

"What is it about Will Graham that interests you?"

~Flashback~

"Have you used one of these before?" Will asks as he casually slides out the magazine of a sleek black nine millimeter he'd just retrieved from the armory. You chuckle, shaking your head while rolling up the sleeves of your sweater. The compact, reliable Glock 17 had been the standard in FBI handguns for around seven years now, Will might've even been trained on them too.

"I learned everything I know with a Glock 17." You tell him with a smile and he nods sheepishly, guilty of nothing more than assuming you might need a little help in gearing up- which you wouldn't have objected to anyway, even if you did.

"Sorry, I keep forgetting that you've done all this before." He gestures around the two of you, at the gray and black and accents of neon yellow that made up the Academy shooting gallery. You give him an understanding smile as his eyes flick up momentarily from the gun to meet yours.

"It's alright, It has been a few years after all, I could use a refresher." You say and he agrees, not needing much convincing at all to give you a short lesson in handgun basics. You had been one of the best shots in your class when you were a trainee, but time had made you sluggish, and when you take the piece from his hand it feels ungainly and foreign. He gives you a moment once you palm the handgun, letting you get a feel for it in your hands before you find a stall to start shooting.

"Here." He says as he tries to hand you a pair of noise canceling headphones, before he remembers the gun you are holding. "Um, Can I...?" He trails off but you understand and move in closer to him so he can place them over your ears, towering at least six inches above you as he does so. You feel one of his fingers lightly graze your cheek as he secures the headphones. It leaves a tingling sensation that only spreads with a traitorous blush that you hope escapes his notice.

You settle in beside him at one of the alleys and he lets you stand front and center, moving backward to give you space. You assume the all too familiar weaver stance, noticing at once how natural the transition still is. Will takes note, his gaze traveling from your head to your heals, flushing crimson yet nodding approvingly. He leans next to you and presses a button on the side, bringing in a new target for you to practice on.

Your first few shots are sloppy, missing where the head and all major organs would have been, had your target been living and breathing. You aren't discouraged, and you square up again for another round of shots. The semi automatic pistol had responded to your every touch immediately, the trigger not too stiff, the recoil tolerable- with some room for improvement of course, which Will soon provides.

"Try this." He steps closer behind you, so close you can smell his aftershave, a cheap pleasant musky pine smell that reminds you suddenly of your father. You banish the thought as his hand touches your elbow lightly, guiding it into a straighter position. It was too intimate a comparison, and inappropriate. You shuffle your feet an inch wider apart and try not to think about his eyes on you.

"To absorb more of the recoil." Will says and you go to line up another shot. This time you center 3 headshots and a few more in the body of the target, theoretically inflicting fatal damage in more than a couple vital organs. Will looks impressed when you turn to him for feedback, and chuckles when you offer him the gun.

"I know Jack said we had half an hour, but he's usually known for jumping the gun." You think back to Jack's hasty instructions to arm up and meet him at his car in 30 minutes. His voice had been questioning when he'd asked when you could leave, but his eyes had said now. You nod at Will in understanding and set the pistol down on the counter as he goes to get you a spare Yaqui slide, standard for any concealed weapon. His own was much nicer than the plain black FBI issue he brings you, leather that's discolored with age and hard use. You quickly check the safety on the handgun before sliding it into place beside your hip, leaving it sensibly loaded.

All agents, wether consulting or on active duty were expected to be armed at all times, and you and Will were no different. Jack expected you to be ready for anything, though you're sure that you'll have no reason to use your weapons, of course.

Together you go to meet Jack just outside of the Academy parking garage. He has his own reserved spot for the souped up Jaguar that's eventually become little short of a legend to the trainees and agents alike, and seeing it again for the first time in two years, you feel a surprising obligation to stop and admire it.

"You okay?" Will asks as you pause, standing almost like a deer in headlights, caught up in the grandeur of the sleek black car you'd heard so much about but never been inside. It feels almost surreal as you shake off your daze and walk up alongside the drivers side to peak in the tinted windows. You know Jack had them replaced with bulletproof glass when he first bought the car, and logically so- you see what looks to be a pretty decent sized bullet hole, the metal singed and blackened towards the edges that tulip on the inside. Probably from a 39mm, an assault rifle. You think, absentmindedly circling the hole with your pinky finger as Will comes up beside you. He crosses his arms and deliberates the car just as you do, his brow crinkling as he takes in the bullet holes and scratch marks you wouldn't see until you got up close.

"Looks like she's seen some heat." You say and he turns to you with a curiously amused expression.

"She?" He asks clearly holding in laughter, and you chuckle as you tuck your hair behind your ear to hide your embarrassment.

"The trainees used to call her Black Betty. It changes every couple of years though, I've heard." You say and he laughs at the title, maybe thinking it suits the car perfectly, as you do.

"When I was a trainee Jack drove a used Toyota Camry." He says and you laugh, it was certainly a big difference from the luxury vehicle he now operated. "I guess it wasn't quite deserving of a nickname." You nod in agreement and slide your hand over the roof of the car, following the curve of the windshield until you got to the headlights. "I think it was a gift from his wife." Will says, watching closely as you walk around the car, occasionally looking in the darkened windows or touching a silver handle. 

"Hell of a gift." You say and grin at him. Turning back to your business fo admiring the vehicle you feel a sudden stab of sadness. How many times had you dreamt about being in this car? How many times had you dreamt about driving it? Having Jack casually toss you the keys like you'd seen him do years before with only a select lucky few. The sadness soon dissolves into satisfaction as you finally get back to Will, on his other side now, and sigh almost with relief.

Seeing all of this again, Quantico, Jack, Black Betty, It somehow felt cathartic. Like you were standing at an inevitable crossroads, one where you could potentially let them all go forever, and never dwell on their influence, or their absence ever again. Or you could take the much more more appealing path of bringing them back into your life again, just as they had been. You shake off the thought and smile reassuringly at Will when you notice him looking at you. His eyes meet yours with a concern that flatters you greatly, but that he doesn't give voice to. Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys that he offers to you with a smile.

"Want to drive?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at you. Taking the keys gratefully, you beam at him in thanks. Your expression turns serious as you go to open the driver's side door.

"I was fully prepared to take them from you, by the way." You say and he laughs, nodding as he takes the passengers seat.

"I believe you." He says once you're both situated comfortably. There's still no sign of Jack, and you suddenly realize how close you two are sitting together, confined to the quiet and intimate splendor of the Jaguar. You place two hands on the steering wheel, feeling smooth leather and cool metal beneath your skin. Turning the key in the ignition it starts up rather quietly, the lights of the center console flaring up to brilliant blue and crimson. The points of contact beneath your hands feel stabilizing, and you take a deep breath through your nose, smelling faintly the lingering scent of cigarette smoke mixed with that of a new car and some cheap cologne that Jack probably used. Will's eyes linger on your face as you release the breathe, lips forming a delicate O as the air leaves you softly.

You wonder then what could be keeping Jack, and a glance at the clock tells you he's five minutes late, a rare occurrence for him. You turn to ask Will where he thinks he might be, when a knock on the driver's side window made you gasp in surprise. You turn to see Jack motioning for you to roll down your window, in his hands is Charlotte Green's file and another bundle, that must have been your new temporary badge.

"Sorry I'm late." Jack says- rather unapologetically you notice, as you roll down your window. "I was getting these." He hands you the file, on top of which is what you recognize instantly as the toxicology report for Charlotte Green's body. 

"I thought this wouldn't be out for another few days?" You ask, handing the whole thing to Will so he could take a look. Toxicology reports usually took somewhere between four to six weeks to come back, and most of the time it was simply due to a backlog of tests at the lab, which there always seemed to be. Jack must have rushed it somehow, and you don't doubt that it's certainly something he would do.

"Switched to priority." He says short and sweet, and you nod. "Now listen, I just want you both to go and check out that alley again. Just get in there and do your thing, no expectations. Get a feel for the environment, why our mythology devotee might've chosen it." His hand appears in the window with your badge which you take gingerly and place in your inside coat pocket. You don't stop to open it up and admire the picture ID or the shiny new badge like you want to, resolving to save that for later, when you were home safe and all alone. 

You wait patiently as Will asks Jack another question, something you don't quite hear and pay little mind to. You are much too eager to get to work, feeling positively giddy with excitement now that you had the badge and the gun to make it all feel real. It was a glorious feeling, to be experiencing all of this just as you had dreamed for years as a trainee. You run your hands softly over the cool leather of the steering wheel again as Jack and Will finish up their talk. 

"Let me know when you're back- and I want a full report by 0900 tomorrow, on the lipstick and the purse, understand?" You both nod your consent and Jack looks pleased. He turns to head back the way he came but stops short to return to your window. "Not a scratch, Y/N." He says holding up a finger, almost like he was preemptively scolding a naughty child. You chuckle and assure him it would be so.

As you pull out of the garage and into the street, away from The Academy and towards the city, you feel a strange pull to turn back. It almost feels like the thread of a sweater being stuck and unraveled as you travel farther and farther away from its frayed end. You can just barely feel yourself getting thinner and thinner as you watch the sign for the Academy turnoff quickly disappear in the rearview mirror, and know that this knew feeling is something you'll be dealing with for a long while.

You're on the highway momentarily, and finally you get to see what kind of speed Black Betty can manage. A positively wicked smile spreads across your face when you press down on the break and hear the engine roar, and Will laughs at your obvious elation. So caught up in the exhilarating speed and responsiveness of the Jaguar you forget that you actually had somewhere to be. 

"Where are we going again?" You ask, and Will chuckles, thinking unbeknownst to you that it would've been more logical for him to drive seeing as he knew where to go, but then he would've missed the spectacle of you driving the Jaguar of course. He just smiles and points ahead of you.

"Here, take this exit. I'll give you directions." And you follow his instructions, blushing at his amused expression from simply watching you.

~Present~

Back in Hannibal Lecter's office, you ponder his question seriously, deliberating why he would even want to know what you found interesting about Will Graham. You also came to the conclusion that with only 20 minutes left in your session if would be much more prudent to avoid the topic of Will altogether, knowing that if you started talking admiringly of him, you would not be able to stop.

Thinking back to the day before, when he'd turned to you, smiled and asked casually "Want to drive?" you are filled with a giddy feeling, one you hadn't felt probably since your college days, when boys had been regular part of your life. Interacting with men now was extremely different, and dating is an unexplored territory you actively fear entering, but with Will, exploring that territory seems extremely appealing to you. You hold in a smile and turn to Dr. Lecter with a serious expression, cocking your head to the side.

"Who says I find him interesting?" You ask and he chuckles, infuriatingly.

"It isn't that hard to see, Y/N." He gives you a crooked smile, and tilts his head almost teasingly. He picks his notes back up from where he had placed them on the side table, opening to his current page once more. You watch as he begins work with his sketching pencil again, the steady rhythm of its movement a focal point for you to focus on as he speaks.

"You are attracted to him, yes?" He asks as your eyes stray from the pencil to his intense maroon gaze, his eyes like two pinpricks of light winking at you in the dimness of the room. The sun was just beginning to set, and with the long thick curtains drawn against the glare it only gets darker and darker.

"I don't see how that's relevant." You say, looking away from his face. You focus instead on a rather violent depiction of Leda and The Swan, a bronze sculpture of two bodies viscerally coming together as one. It was graphic and incredibly elegant, and your face flushes with an inescapable crimson as your eyes trace the curves of Leda's body, the curls in her hair, the part in her lips. You wonder salaciously if the Doctor ever got flustered looking at it too.

"I'm only looking out for you, Y/N. Both of you. Will is a close acquaintance as well, and most of what I know about him is enough to make anyone worry." He pauses and glances momentarily at the sculpture that was holding your attention and turns to you with a smirk. You wonder if it is possible for him to know what you were thinking, and when he smiles at the blush that spreads across your face you conclude that perhaps it is. He sighs, and says almost sadly; "Will's mind has a certain fragility that others overcome with determination, one that often makes him vulnerable to seduction by beautiful things."

Your eyes quickly flit over to meet his heated gaze, immediate understanding at what he'd just told you forming in your eyes. He smiles charmingly and turns back to his notes, letting you absorb this new compliment and appreciate it with time. You realize that you've become accustomed to the way the Doctor hides his thoughts and feelings in observations or statements made of others. It still surprises you when you can decipher his thoughts so clearly, without having to go digging for them. 

You don't know quite what to say, and after sitting in silence for a few moments Dr. Lecter rises and heads to his desk, setting down your file and his black leather notebook. 

"I want you to remember something about Will, Y/N." He says as he leans against the side of his desk, surprisingly informal. He says nothing more on the matter, until you ask; "What is it?"

"I want you to remember what he is. What Will possesses, just like you, is pure unsullied empathy. As I'm sure you know better than anyone it has its price, and to Will, that price is less than that of the reward. He will always, always, value someone else's life over his own."

"You want me to make sure he doesn't do something stupid?" You chuckle as you stand up from your seat, though you can feel your insides being clenched by the cool hand of dread, unable to break free from its iron grip. You walk around your chair and face him as he leans against his desk, your faces nearly level when he leans back.

"I want you to make sure he doesn't do anything heroic." He says, leaving the desk and stepping closer to you. So close you can smell his cologne, crisp and clean smelling, certainly something designer, Christian Dior or Tom Ford maybe. The smell was incredibly sexy, and most definitely expensive. You find yourself comparing it to the cheap stuff you smelled on Will, and stop what you're doing to drag yourself back to the present. 

You look into his eyes, your own filling with curiosity at the concern for his friend that should have been there. He says the whole thing stone-faced with a slight smile, and you think that maybe it was on purpose. He doesn't want me to know his true thoughts, you think regretfully, not entirely sure why.

"Okay. Deal." You say and hold out your hand to him. He chuckles looking down at your outstretched palm and smiles as he takes it in his own, shaking it twice before hesitantly letting go. His hand had been surprisingly cool, though it leaves behind a pleasant burning sensation that lingers long after you leave his office.


	9. Soufflé

The rain has only just lessened to a light drizzle when you begin your short walk back to your apartment. The air is crisp and cool, the chill leaving a pleasant ache in your arms and legs, though you wrap your coat tighter around your slim frame.

Externally you listen with a faraway look to the bustling sounds of the city, steadily nearing its usual level of nightlife excitement. Internally however your mind is alive with the words of Doctor Lecter, who's voice you notice is beginning to become greatly anticipated, and desired. You'd only had two sessions with him, two discussions, yet still you feel like you are holding your breathe, waiting for the next time you will see his face, or hear the dulcet deliverance of his many poetic revelations.

You can feel the need growing in you like a planted seed, knowing it will only get more insistent with time away from the Doctor. Even within the private confines of your own mind you refer to him only as Doctor Lecter, deciding that thinking of him as Hannibal was much too informal and... intimate. Not that the thought of being intimate with him was unappealing, of course. You simply knew that the rigid boundaries between patient and therapist were inflexible and not to be crossed, however Dr. Lecter seemed to be blurring them steadily with each session.

You think back to his quite obviously avid interest in your thoughts on Will Graham as you cross the street and approach your building. How he'd smiled at the way you blushed, when he'd asked if you thought Will was attractive. That had always been one of your most hated flaws; your inability to conceal your passion, or embarrassment for that matter. The affliction would always present itself in the same ways, a rise in temperature, a flush in complexion, and a nervous stutter in certain words.

It had been the greatest torment of your adolescent years, causing you grief in all the trivial aspects of a normal childhood. Friends would mock, bullies would tease, and scorned lovers (though rare) would sharpen their pitchforks and arm themselves with your insecurities, simply for the pleasure of seeing you blush. Not that you sense this kind of hostility in Doctor Lecter. He is after all, far above all of their petty jealousies and adolescent quarrels. That said, you do sense that the sight gives him a queer sort of pleasure, one that only manifests itself in the barest hint of a smile, or a minute tilt of the head.

In other words, Hannibal Lecter is a difficult man for anyone to read, and you are no exception. Though the inability is probably a much bigger frustration to you than most, you think, entering your building through the main doors, a welcoming wall of warmth enveloping you like an old friend as you step through its ancient jaws.

You stride right past the entrance to the rusty old elevator that hadn't been functioning since 1995, and start up the stairs. You sigh languidly, silently preparing your tired feet for a long trek up to the 9th floor. You don't mind much though, almost ten flights of stairs makes for killer calves after all. You glance around absentmindedly at all of the dated fixtures decorating the small lobby, trailing your fingers along the wrought iron railing, feeling the cool metal beneath your touch. The hard, cold surface is comfortingly stabilizing and yet somehow familiar enough to flood your mind with memories of times past, where you'd done exactly this too many times in fact, to even be able to count.

It is, and has always been ever your father's place, but now you take comfort in the outdated features of the building, and all of its whimsical charm and mysterious allure. You hadn't actually lived here properly until after your father died, until after he'd left you everything he owned, which wasn't much; even the apartment had been rented.

After moving here at 13 years old you subsequently enrolled at a prestigious boarding school, the best that your newly broken family could afford. Your grades had gotten you most of the way there, and a few school grants soon had you dressed head to toe in pleated plaid, trying your very best to be everything anyone wanted you to be. From there you headed straight to university, and an internship with the FBI. Then the training program, and standard housing in a dorm packed with girls all striving for the same thing you were. It had all happened pretty fast, and you hadn't been able to really take a moment and breathe it all in until after your father died, and you were plopped back into the place you remembered fondly as being entirely, quite ridiculously, his own.

Chaos had been a common theme used in his decorating, or lack thereof. Rolls of canvas often littered the floor, as did unfinished masterpieces and empty squashed up paint tubes. He had a multitude of mediums that he frequented, from charcoal to ink, and oil to acrylic, all were often on display about the rooms, scattered in containers or smeared on clothing and other various surfaces. He often described it himself as a painter's wet dream- something you wholeheartedly disagreed with as a painter yourself. You've always thought that one's living space is a representation of their purest self, and in your father's case this was overwhelmingly accurate.

The apartment nowadays carries but a few similarities with the old one, it now being a reflection of your self rather than his, and it's lack of former excitement often makes you smile sadly in silent deliberation to yourself, as you do now, heading up the familiar and endless staircase. 

The building had been commissioned in the early forties, built by some famous old architect from years ago that some of the elder tenants would be happy to tell you about if you asked them. Some, like 73 year old Mr. Fitz on the 2nd floor, had been here for so long that the history of the building had become almost religion. You often find the stories traded between them to have grown, both in size and volume, as stories often did when there was just nothing else of greater import to talk about. Their stories, unbeknownst to them of course, were often the source of inspiration for a great many of your paintings, and you listened to them with the patience of a child, eager to learn as much as you could of a timeless world long before your own.

Mr. Fitz and the others had been good friends of your father, and loved him dearly. You are always a constant concern for them, and folks are always asking if you are alright, or if you need anything. You even receive the occasional anonymous casserole, which always causes much confusion, but is eaten gratefully nonetheless.

You are not a very social creature, by any means, but the same cynicism you reserve for most of your social interactions never extends to them, and you're never anything but amiable and courteous. You have a special appreciation for old people, perhaps because they're harder to read than the younger generations, most emoting features having been faded unrecognizably with age.

The only person you ever find yourself associating with regularly, (besides a few friendly older tenants) is Beverly, whom you've really only known for a few weeks, and whose company is still tinged with the exciting novelty of a new friend. Besides Bev, friends seem to be few and far between, and always have been really, since you were a young girl. You suppose that it comes from the "empathy disorder," as your childhood doctors used to say- rather inaccurately as far as you're concerned. You prefer to think of your empathy as a strange gift, rather than the rare affliction it has been said to be.

You're sure Will Graham would understand these conflicting thoughts, or at least, you hope that he will. Hope that he will understand the difficulty of living in a world full of people you completely understand, and yet, actively dislike. Hope that he will have known the weight of their harsh words, and the total scrutiny of their unforgiving gaze. In fact, you were fully prepared to ask him the next time you got a chance, hoping that his own insight would help you come to terms with the 'disorder' you've so long desired to be rid of. You are completely convinced that he's the only one you've ever met who shares your empathic condition, and the only one you are certain who will understand.

Upon letting yourself into your apartment, Marlowe, your black tabby who you swear is more dog than cat, runs up to you with a high pitched "mau" as is only his custom. You bend down with a laugh as he rubs the side of his face on your leg, scooping him up to give several words of well-deserved praise. You step out of your boots while carefully juggling an insistent Marlowe over to the kitchen where you set him down on the counter.

You don't prepare much where dinner is concerned, in fact you expect that Beverly will be showing up shortly, probably wanting to drag you to some club or bar somewhere in the city. You pick listlessly at a leftover salad from a café while Marlowe chows down on some quite nasty looking salmon colored cat food. You'd never tell from how fast he eats it though, and he's soon crying for more, acting as if the poor thing has never been fed in it's life. Trying to ignore his mewling, not unlike that of an actual child, you take out your phone, a sudden idea forming in your mind- caused by something you had quite forgotten up until now.

You type quickly, before you have a chance to second guess yourself, and the name comes easily after a quick moment spent trying to remember it. The search for Freddie Lounds brings up a plethora of results, the first of which is a link to her infamous website, Tattlecrime.com. You click, and scroll for a moment before you come to what appears to be her top running story, preceded by a shaky picture of a distant Will Graham looking back at you. His eyes have a grim cast over them, and his mouth forms a hard line, as if he's just caught his secret photographer red handed. It was dated about six months ago, and he was standing in what looks to be the middle of a crime scene. You can barely see dashes of yellow police tape and spots where the photo was tinged with the red and blue of flashing police lights.

You switch to your laptop before beginning to read, fetching it from your room quickly whithout quite admitting to yourself that it was the picture you wanted to see better, not the narrative. You blush severely while studying the photo on your computer screen, resisting the urge to do another quick google search of Will's name as well. Instead you force yourself to move on and tear your eyes away from his austere cobalt gaze and scroll down to the title Freddie's given her article, in a black and bold scholarly font.

"It Takes One to Know One" you read and audibly scoff as your face falls and you frown. If you have not already come to the conclusion that you do not in fact, like Freddie Lounds in the slightest, you certainly have now. You read on diligently, yet force yourself to stop after only a few more paragraphs. Some of the things she said about Will were just too distressing, and too ridiculous. She references his "social disorder" and "demented mind" more than once, and upon checking a few of her other stories you find, infuriatingly, that they're rather common statements.

You think her writing entirely unoriginal, and find that her ego far outweighs her writing skills. This is only further ingrained into your brain when you come to her most recent article, where you find a grainy photo of you and Will standing side by side in the alleyway from the other day. You glance up hesitantly at the title and surpress a gasp as your eyes move over the title. It is far worse than you imagined.

"Bride of Frankenstein by Freddie Lounds

Y/N L/N. She is widely known throughout Baltimore state of Maryland as being the only survivor and witness of the Maryland Minotaur in action. She and another young woman; Kathleen Walker were attacked simultaneously by a masked assailant. The mask in question, not a mask at all, but rather a severed bull's head that earned him the title of Minotaur, after the notoriously terrifying creature from the popular Greek myth. A report from a nurse at Johns Hopkins Hospital determines that L/N sustained a few broken ribs and a mere sprained collar bone, not to mention innumerable cuts and bruises. She was committed to Johns Hopkins just an hour after the murder, and remained on bed rest for another week before returning home. Compared to the other victims she seems to have gotten off incredibly light, and we are left only to wonder how it is she managed to survive such an attack- and perhaps there is more to her story then was told.

Besides the fact that she's a survivor, there isn't much else to be said for her, right? Wrong. Upon researching more about our little enigma, I found that there is so much more to this cheerless beauty than what meets the eye.

Y/N had been a trainee at the FBI Academy in Quantico West Virginia about two years ago, but was never made a full time agent due to the results of her failed psychological evaluation needed to qualify. She was recently desrcibed by an inside source as being distant and morose, yet still a critical asset to the Behavioral Science Unit for her strange ability to empathize with the mentally deranged and twisted. It is not unlike what our own resident empath Will Graham is known for, and is probably why she was asked for specifically by Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioral Science Unit and L/N's previous mentor.

Rumors at Quantico have been spreading like wildfire, and the talk around town says that Jack has finally found a worthy adversary in this new murderer. The Maryland Minotaur has been savaging the women of Baltimore for almost six weeks now, and with casualties amounting to a whopping five dead and one injured we can only assume that he has no intentions of ceasing this murderous rampage. The bottom line? Jack can use all the help he can get, and it seems he's turned to some rather unorthodox means.

I happened upon the two of them in the middle of investigating a seemingly random location in downtown Baltimore, the two of them cozying up together comfortably in the dark and cold of the out of the way side-street There is something to be said for the way they make business talk look so incredibly intimate, and they didn't seem to notice me at first, too absorbed in each other, and in the work.

Will Graham has been known for solving his fair share of oddball cases with nothing more than his wits, cases that many others had tried and failed to advance with. It seems now he has someone to keep him company in this dismal world of catching serial killers, and with one as classically attractive as Y/N's, it's bound to be anything but boring. I only spoke with them for a few minutes, but by the time I'd been threatened with obstruction of justice I'd already noticed that the pair had quite the connection, not to mention chemistry. It seemed they barely needed to speak to one another, and communication happened miraculously, a single look would tell the other much more than needed to be said.

The two of them had quite the first day together if I'm to be any judge, and going by the location our meeting took place; a decrepit abandoned alleyway where a young woman was found murdered, and is suspected to be the first victim of The Maryland Minotaur. This is quite contrary to the statements released to the media, that Kathleen Walker and Y/N L/N were the first victims, and we can only guess as to why the FBI would want to keep her death a secret from the public, when the truth is the only thing now that can stop this constant spread of fear."

You have to make yourself stop here, deciding that continuing to read would only cause you more distress. Instead you fix a cup of tea, leaving your laptop open on the photo of you and Will, not quite ready to let the image go dark just yet. You think as you putter around your kitchen to what had awaited you and Will at the last place Charlotte Green ever drew breath.

~Flashback~

"Turn here, at the light." Will says, reaching into your sightline to point at your destination, a distant alley that you can just barely see is closed off with bright yellow police tape, some of which is broken, fluttering in the wind like vivid flags of mourning. "You should park a couple blocks away, we can walk up." He says while looking over his shoulder.

"Why? What is it?" You ask as your eyes remain fixed on the road. He doesn't answer but you do as he says, driving past the entrance without another glance in its direction. Black Betty drives smoother than most, and glides seamlessly over the pavement as you turn into a conveniently empty parking lot about three blocks down.

The Jaguar was probably the most extravagant thing you have ever been inside, and it shows in your obvious hesitance to leave it's dry warmth, and surprisingly calming atmosphere. You feel almost tranquil sitting here with Will, at ease in your posture, and in your words. You had thought that the ride would have had the opposite effect on you, considering the fact that you've been so closely confined with Will for the last half hour. You look over at him, and he raises an eyebrow at your reluctance to leave. You laugh and shake your head, then turn your attention from his eyes to his hand running over the dashboard, long fingers splayed out over its smooth surface. The tendons are all stretched taught, and you're suddenly stuck with the image of his hand running over your thigh to your knee, but then you blink, and it is gone.

"You can drive on the way back too." He says chuckling, and you do the same, tearing your gaze away from his hand and sighing once in preparation. Upon opening your door and stepping out into downtown Baltimore, you notice several things at once.

First is the cold, the worst kind. Damp, and sticky. The kind you only get in late November, before that nostalgic and comforting blanket of snow falls, and the world just looks empty, and dim.

You turn your head from side to side and notice the deserted parking lot and adjoining side streets. The lot was for a failing tanning salon, boarded up and deserted like most of the other businesses you glimpse up and down the vacant road.

Then of course you note the stark difference between the dingy gray and red brick buildings and the unnaturally bright colors used in the urban street graffiti all around, and note the surprising lack of new artists, so to speak. All the paint you glimpse from a fair distance away is dry and cracked, chipping off and fading away in some places. You come to the chilling conclusion that this place has been deserted for months, maybe longer.

Will might have noticed the same things if he weren't so incredibly preoccupied with looking over his shoulder, surveying your surroundings apprehensively. You can't imagine what he can possibly have to be nervous about, you are armed after all..

"Are you okay?" You ask as he runs a hand through his chestnut curls and walks over to you. "What is it?" You try again, pressing him further when he doesn't answer.

"Um, It's nothing." He shakes his head as he joins you on the sidewalk. "I just thought I saw something..." He trails off, sticking his hands in his coat pockets clumsily. He doesn't look at you, and you aren't nearly convinced enough, though you nod and drop the subject. That is, until he begins to look around uncomfortably again as you walk, everything from his quickened gait to the way his eyes flick about nervously, obviously looking out for something... or someone.

You immediately press him for more, crossing your arms and turning to face him defiantly. He sighs and nods sheepishly, probably coming to the conclusion that you are in fact right, and that keeping something from you is more or less impractical.

"You recognized Jack's car in an instant, didn't you?" He inquires and you nod. Confused at this new direction, you hope that he isn't changing the subject. "Well, you aren't the only one who would. Like you said, it's practically a legend."

"She." You correct, with a teasing smile on your face. He looks a little stunned by your easy grin, unbeknownst to you he was simply mesmerized by the sudden realization that your hair was tinged with red in the sunlight- a fact that demanded at least a few moments of attention before he could possibly look away- though he does eventually, glancing back hesitantly to your questioning gaze and infectious smile.

"Right." He says and returns your grin, all traces of worry gone from his face for at least a moment. "She," He continues on, smiling dryly to himself, "has quite the cult following, actually."

"Oh?" You raise your eyebrows at him and he chuckles at your expression.

"Well, when I say 'cult' I'm referring more towards the occasional tabloid blogger than any die hard fan of Jack's, though he does have a few."

"Huh, no kidding. I guess that's not so surprising- about the car, I mean." You say and he nods in agreement. "I suppose to the untrained eye it must look like death follows wherever it goes, when in truth it's the other way around."

"And they would have you believe the same thing, if it were up to them." You glance over to see his face hardening with a bitterness you don't recognize in him.

"Not a fan of journalist, Will?" You ask and he almost smiles, the corners turning up the slightest bit, but still he maintain his serious expression.

"They're goddamned vultures, Y/N." He says in frustration as he runs a hand through his hair exasperatedly, and you would have laughed had it not been for his severe countenance. He thinks for a moment and decides on a better term to describe them. "They're pilotfish- that's it." He looks victorious in his finding of the proper description, but in deriving it's meaning you find yourself falling short and turn to him for assistance.

"These silvery-blue striped fish that follow big animals around, sometimes ships." He clarifies and you nod in understanding.

"They hang around sharks, right? And the sharks don't eat them." You say, the fun fact most definitely attributed to some distant memory of a school trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore from years before. He looks rather impressed by this little stray piece of knowledge you already seemed to possess, and nods his head with a crooked smile that makes you blush the slightest bit.

"They inspired Herman Melville because of the way they would willingly swim into a sharks mouth to clean their teeth." His face lights up as he speaks, and he gestures with his hands excitedly when he mentions the author of the infamous Moby Dick and other various important pieces in Maritime literature. "He once wrote that they 'lurk in the port of serrated teeth... and there find a haven when peril's abroad.'" He says, opening and closing his quote with his fingers.

You would have laughed if you weren't so engrossed in simply watching his face as he speaks, a fevered and passionate look in his eyes as they flit back and forth, from you, to the ground, to the sky, to his hands. He never seems to be able to pick something to fixate his attentions on, yet when his eyes turn to what lies just in front of him they almost glaze over in wonderment, as if he is staring out at a distant horizon, one that you cannot share as it is only in his mind.

"Wow. How did you remember that?" He chuckles when he catches a glimpse of your impressed expression and he blushes the slightest bit.

"I grew up around the ocean." He says, focusing intently on the squares of sidewalk as they pass by underneath you both. "And I could just never get enough of nautical fiction when I was a kid. Moby Dick, The Old Man in and Sea, The perfect Storm- It was just all I was interested in."

"You and me both- books were my practically only friends when I was a kid." You glance over at him and shrug. He looks at you curiously and you got the impression that he suddenly saw himself in you, and that his regard for you had changed, if only slightly, and hopefully positively. Anyway, that does sound like a journalist's behavior, though I don't really know too many."

"Well, I do." He sighs, and maybe relieved that you changed the subject he looks down at his shoes. "Too many, I mean." He says glancing to you with a raised eyebrow and you laugh, the sound bringing a pleasant smile to his face.

"So that's why you're so jumpy, huh? You think someone, a reporter," You correct yourself, "might've followed us here?" He winces at your use of the term and shakes his head chuckling.

"She'd be flattered you called her that."

"She?" You ask, not entirely sure why.

"Her name is Freddie Lounds, she has this... website... Tattlecrime.com. It's nothing more than a collection of the FBI's latest, a tabloid blog, really." He makes a screwed up sort of face, like the words themselves might taste unpleasant to speak. You get the feeling that any conversation about this Freddie Lounds was simply an assault on his senses, she was that much disliked. You wonder what she had done for him to hold her in such disdainful regard. "She drives this pale blue Volkswagen Beetle from the 1970's or something like that. Really old."

"Did you see it? As we were driving up?" You ask and he nods.

"I think so. Either way, you should definitely know who she is. No doubt she'd do anything to write about you, especially now." Surprise coats youre features and he laughs softly. "Don't be too shocked, you're quite the object of curiosity, Y/N." He notices you wince at his words and looks questioningly over at you.

"I'm not really used to being the center of attention is all." You shrug.

"Well you'd better get used to it, I don't think Zellers going to be getting over his new crush anytime soon." Mortified, you feel your face begin to burn, an inevitable blush creeping flooding your cheeks.

"At least I'm not the only one who noticed he was acting strange." You say, collecting yourself and he chuckles. "Promise me, from now on you won't leave me alone with him?" You look up at him, eyes pleading for him to acquiesce. He considers you quietly for a moment, eyes nervously flitting away from your face to settle on the ground in front of the both of you.

"I think I can manage that." He looks over and meets your eyes with his own remarkably deep azure gaze. As you look up at him then, here in the middle of the sidewalk in downtown Baltimore, you are met with the stunning realization that you do in fact, just might, have a teeny tiny crush on Will Graham.

It surprises you to no end how very familiar he is, like you have known him your whole life. But how can that be possible? How can it be possible to care for him, the way you find yourself doing even now, after merely knowing him a single day? How can it be possible that looking on his face is like seeing the face of an old friend peering through a window. How can it be?

"Thanks." You say tearing your gaze away from his direction, after maybe a beat too long.

A moment later you simultaneously round a corner and spot the crime scene dead ahead. Will speeds up the tiniest bit to get in front of you and lifts the police tape with one hand, gesturing you under. You smile at the way his face goes crimson when you thank him, and duck underneath, pausing for him to do the same.

Most civilians with absolutely no law enforcement training usually picture a crime scene as being any sort of space showered in blood and viscera, the other constant being a chalk or tape outline of a body in the middle of the floor, but this of course is a common misconception. The few crime scenes you had actually seen with your own two eyes were quite different, in fact. Most of the time, trainees would show up later, after cleaning crews had come in to clean up the mess. As for the chalk outline, they really only do that in the movies, or if a victim has to be removed from a crime scene for medical attention; if they survived.

As far as anyone off the street would know, the alley isn't all that abnormal, and besides the police tape you wouldn't have be able to tell that anyone had died here at all. The same scene in front of you must have been read much differently by Will Graham, and he looks around at your surroundings both with a fierce and unwavering concentration.

"You okay?" You ask gently, not for the first time that day, you reflect. He looks over at you and smiles, and nods, but keeps his silence. His jaw clenches when his focus turns back to the crime scene and you see the taut muscles standing out on the side of his head, twitching in serious thought. His eyes suddenly come to rest on your face, an eyebrow raised in concern. 

"Are you ready?" He asks and you nod in return. 

"Ready when you are. Let's get to work."


	10. Avgolemono

Huddled together in the darkening alleyway you and Will pour over Charlotte's lengthy autopsy report, heads bent together in silent collaboration. It isn't long before you both spot something strange in the seemingly random lists of numbers and percentages.

What might have looked like a fat load of mumbo jumbo to anyone else makes perfect sense to you and Will, and he nods in agreement when you point out an abnormality. Firstly, and perhaps most obvious, her list of topical injuries, a head laceration and one cut on her right thigh that measured about an inch deep and five inches long. You also both instantly recognize the signs of internal and external bleeding, but that's a given of course, as you had seen so in the pictures, yet something about the numbers don't add up. When you voice your concern for Charlotte's unaccounted for liter of blood, Will agrees promptly and you read on, listing percentages and lab statements out loud for him to hear.

Another strange curiosity that you and Will notice after the second read through is the apparent lack of COD- the space where her cause of death should have been listed was left blank, and you both look at each other curiously, watching ideas and theories swirl together behind the others eyes.

"What are you thinking?" He asks and you smile, feeling a bit victorious that he was the first to ask.

"Well, it's entirely possible we're on the same page about this..." You trail off but he nods to get you to continue.

"Go on." He says and you chuckle while tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, nervous to share your findings with Will, on the off chance that you could be way off base.

"I could be wrong..." You say and he rolls his eyes, making you smile sheepishly. "Well, my first guess is that she's arrhythmic." He raises an eyebrow at this and you continue, pointing to a single spot among her toxicology results. "See this here? Her blood tests detected trace amounts of Lidocaine- it's a medicine used to treat irregular heartbeats." You had noticed the drugs appearance right away, but hadn't known if Will even knew what it was. You think he seems confused, and your suspicions are confirmed when he asks if it's the same thing you get at the dentists office, before getting a tooth pulled- a valid question, because yes, it is. Though no amount of topical lidocaine would show up on a blood test, so it must be an oral medication, one she takes when symptoms flare up.

"Wouldn't we have seen it among the medications she brought with her? She had others in her suitcase." He asks and you raise a finger, delighted to have found the answer before him.

"Not necessarily. Lidocaine is a take-as-needed drug, it relieves symptoms fast with little side effects. She'd need it as close as possible. If she was traveling with it, which she must have been, I'd say she'd have put it in her carry-on." A smile gradually spreads across Wills face as he realizes that you're right.

"In her purse." He finishes, and you nod your head vigorously, unable to contain your excitement at having come full circle. You now had two solid reasons to suspect a missing bag for Charlotte, and little more than instinct to suggest that it might be with her killer.

"Exactly!" He sees your eyes brighten with excitement and returns the look in kind, a charming smile taking over his face that had previously been drawn in heavy concentration.

"So you think the killer could have the purse?" He asks and you shrug, looking over your shoulder, back the way you had come, towards the brilliance of the open sky and afternoon activity of downtown Baltimore.

"It's possible. We'll have to check the whole area. She could have dropped it." He nods and crosses his arms.

"If that's the case, it's gotta be around here somewhere." You agree enthusiastically and the two of you soon begin searching the immediate area, walking the length of the alley, eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. You return not long after, empty handed and a bit discouraged. The feeling doesn't last long however, and upon noticing a rusty and decrepit looking fire escape with its ladder stuck on the second floor, you nudge Will who instantly agrees that it's a better lead than none. In any case, all avenues have to be explored, in the slight chance that your transgressor could have left a piece of evidence behind.

The ladder to the fire escape is slid three quarters of the way up, stuck an unfortunate 9 feet above ground level before it continues up to the third floor. The thought of jumping does cross your mind, but you abandon the idea at once, deciding to save your dignity that much at least.

"Give me a boost?" You ask him instead, turning to see his face flushing crimson, blood beginning to pool beneath his cheeks simply from the thought of the closeness that will be required to lift you at at least three extra feet. You have to stop your mouth from falling open at the sight, and at this sudden notion that demands recognition; the idea that Will Graham finds you physically attractive.

It has never been exactly out of the ordinary for you, and finding yourself the object of a man's affections isn't ever all that surprising, however unwelcome it may be. Will is a different case of course, though you can't quite put your finger on why. Perhaps it is simply because, unlike with your previous experiences, you actually reciprocate the feeling.

When you were younger, having first moved to Baltimore, the weight of the male gaze had been new and exciting, even endearing in some cases. You hadn't been accustomed to being the center of attention, especially since most boys from your hometown had known you since you were in diapers, and it was nice having the occasional longing look or flirtatious exchange. Then of course these became more cumbersome, once you came to understand what they had meant.

Like most little girls your age, you had often dreamt of true love, and of the prince who would someday sweep you off your feet and whisk you away to a lovers paradise. That was until the day you were forced to grow up, and bury all childish fancy where it couldn't give you anymore false hope for a sweeter future than you were sure to have. Ever since then you'd had your mind and heart set simply on advancements in your career, and completely ignored any progress that had to do with relationships, not that you'd had many- and certainly none that resulted in the admission of more than mere attraction. This being said, you are surprised to realize that you can actually see yourself loving Will Graham. In fact, you think it'd be quite easy. And if not that, if not love, you could at least see yourself fucking him.

The thought makes you blush furiously, mirroring his own face rather perfectly as he nods in agreement. Getting down on one knee he links his hands together to form a step, looking off to the side and away from your face the entire time. As you put one foot in his hands he lifts you up in one fluid motion and your hand catches the first rusted metal rung of the ladder easily. It isn't as stuck as you thought before, and as you give it your weight it releases a piercing metallic shriek as it falls back towards the ground with you clinging to its bars. Will catches you in his arms before your legs slam back to the ground, and pulls you aside with his arms around your waist as the ladder crashes to the spot where your feet would have been.

Stunned for a moment as he disentangles his arms from your middle you turn to look at him openmouthed before stuttering out a hasty "thank you".

"Welcome." He says while running a hand through his hair, retreating to a respectful distance, obviously embarrassed. He gestures for you to climb up before him, and you do so quickly, turning to politely offer him a hand when you reach the top.

Theres only one option for an entrance you see, and it doesn't look all that inviting. A cold fist of dread clenches in the pit of your stomach as you take in the gray, rusting metal door, as well as the near 23 feet that lay sickeningly between it and the ground. Heights weren't usually a problem for you, but there did seem to be a lot of firsts happening for you today.

"After you?" He asks you while brushing the flakes of rust from his palms, smearing visceral smudges of crimson on the front of his jeans. You do the same, welcoming the red stains with a grimace.

"Such a gentleman." You say while rolling your eyes playfully, and he chuckles awkwardly as you pull out a hefty tactical flashlight- one that could clip to an FBI or SWAT getup easily. You hold it in your left hand as you try the door with the other, surprise coating your features as you find it unlocked. Though pleased you wouldn't have to use a crowbar to force your way in, you're still hesitant upon entering, and let the flashlight's beam of light pierce the darkness inside long before you yourself step into it.

The beam from your flashlight flicks around nervously as you carefully step through the doorway, your foot crunching over what feels like years of broken glass and tiny crumbling shards of the very building you stand in. You see flashes of different objects in the light that is jerking around nervously, none of them any cause for alarm, except perhaps something that catches your eye over in the far right corner, something red.

Will suggests you spread out to cover more ground, a prudent decision you ultimately decide, nervous as you are to explore what appears to you to be an abandoned factory; maybe metal manufacturing, copper wire or something like that. It's an entirely open floor plan and the dominating black outlines of the industrial sized machines stand like sentinels guarding closely over the whole establishment, and in the darkness and silence save for the crunching of glass beneath your doc martins you can almost hear them starting to wake as they sense the presence of those who are nosing around places where they had no business being.

"Don't go too far, okay? Shout if you find anything." Will says and you almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. I'm so frightened, a mouse could make me scream right now. You think to yourself yet still push on toward the flash of crimson you thought you'd seen, now not so confident you wanted to find it at all. Even before you had entered the building, you'd had that sick familiar feeling in your gut. The same one you'd gotten when Miriam had dissapeared, when you'd known in you heart that she would not be returning. Maybe it is simply the empathy talking, and in that case maybe Will feels it too, you think to yourself, along with a new surge of panicked and spiraling thoughts when you find what you are looking for.

Something really bad happened here.

Tremulously, and with great effort, you lower the beam of the flashlight to the ground, to settle on what you instantly recognize as a wad of hair, of platinum blonde beauty queen hair.

"Uh, Hey Will?" You say, taking a moment to find your voice as you notice something else as well, a large smear of blood on the wall to your left, right before the entrance of the stairs to the first floor. There seems to be a trail of splatters leading further into the building, and a decent amount at that, so much in fact that you think it must account for the missing blood. Perhaps there's even more downstairs, you think before resolving to never find out for yourself as you peer into the cold, inimical darkness seeping up from below.

Will finds you at last, crouching down beside you to inspect the hair first, and then the blood after, which he is delighted to find has not one, not two, but three whole fingerprints that he is certain would have at least one 16 point match among them. It doesn't matter of course, as it is Charlotte's blood after all.

"Good find." He says, and you smile hesitantly at the compliment, realizing it probably would have felt better if he'd said it out in the light of day. It is impossible to appreciate anything here, like the darkness has just sucked the ability from you, filling the hole where it had been with a panicked type of fear, and the rotting, sinking feeling that a similar fate to that of Charlotte Green will befall you here.

Suddenly you want nothing more than to run hellbent for the door, and for the knowledge that help would soon be here. You ignore the impulse and turn to Will calmly, telling him you'll call Bev and the team, though you don't think he quite hears you as he nods yes with a look that tells you he's miles away.

Back out on the fire escape, drenched in sunlight you are yourself again, and calling Bev is made much easier once your hands have ceased their shaking. She answers on the second ring and instantly inquires about your opinion of Will, his hair, his eyes, his smile, and you're glad you'd left him by himself to make the call, sure you wouldn't have been able to maintain a straight face to save you dignity.

You ignore her prying questions and explain the situation quickly, allowing her time to get excited so she'd take this seriously. Bev was wild, and unpredictable at times, but that was one of the main reasons you loved being friends with her. Another was her work ethic, simply for the fact that it was completely unmatched and unrivaled. The woman lived to work, lived for the moments when she would be the most intelligent person in the room. She lived for the moments when she could put another one away, another psychopath who thought he was smart enough to fool her. The "Gotcha" moments she calls them, and there simply isn't a better term.

You knew that this would peak her interest immediately, and just as you'd thought she jumps into action and you can hear her shuffling around on the other end, and you imagine her rushing to put a coat on and snapping to alert her coworkers.

"We'll be there in 30." She says and you thank her gratefully before hanging up and turning back to the factory entrance, taking a deep breath before going to tell Will that the lab was on their way. You eventually find him after a fair bit of searching, as you can't see his light or hear any movement up ahead. Eventually you hear the clang of something metal falling to the ground, and you gasp into the darkness before clamping a hand around your mouth, ashamed and bewildered at being so afraid. The sound promptly alerts you to Will's location, and as your flashlight settles on his silhouette you sigh in relief and make your way over to him, stepping carefully over broken pieces of rebar and old piping. His flashlight rolls lazily at his feet, illuminating a distant corner and making the shadows of the various machines shift and twist disturbingly.

His back, you notice is ramrod straight, like he's been doused with a bucket of ice water, and as you step carefully around the debris to make your way to his face you hold your breath in anticipation, fearing the absolute worst in this terrible midnight that only seemed to exist in this building. Your thoughts are instantly steered towards more supernatural possibilities before you remind yourself that you'd never accepted anything that needed complete and unadulterated belief without physical proof before. 

You shake of your Bram Stokien theories and make yourself walk around him to look at his face, and are stunned by his wide eyed expression, eyes that you had half expected to be closed flick around almost reflexively, reacting to figures you suppose only he can see. You realize at once what is happening, and recognize your own strange technique in his stature, in the way his lips move just slightly and the way his hands shake feverishly at his sides. You lay a hand cautiously and hesitantly on his arm, knowing regretfully that what you really want is to rest your hand on the side of his face, to feel the soft warm flesh and prickly stubble beneath your fingers, and to smooth the lines of worry away from his eyes, and his mouth.

"Will?" You ask, running you hand up his sleeve gently, coaxing a response from his 'unconscious' body.

"Look at me... Will." Upon hearing his name from your lips you see his eyes flood with awareness, the dazed and confused look previously held on his face melting into one of horror, for a reason you can't place. He steps back from you as his breath bursts out from him in intermittent gasps that reverberate throughout his whole body and you reach out to steady him with both hands before he falls over something. You help him to a sitting position and crouch in front fo him at eye level, careful to keep your knees off the floor

"I'm okay... I'm okay." He chokes out to reassure you as he catches his breath, and it occurs to you that he must not have been breathing during his 'session', which is what you jokingly like to say to refer to your empathetic episodes, so to speak. Most of the time these were voluntary, other times not. You wonder which it had been for Will this time, deciding it is better not to ask.

"Are you sure? You don't look okay..." He nods, unable to speak for the difficult business of trying to catch his breath. "You don't have to do that, you know. Not while I'm here. " You say and he looks up at you, surprised perhaps at your declaration.

"We can just..." You think for a moment as he continues to suck in mouthfuls of air, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "Talk it through. You don't have to go there." You finish and nod matter of factly. You know how taxing a session is, and you also know it is not the only way to find out the truth, as is made evident by literally anyone else in the FBI besides you two.

"I almost don't want to ask." You say and he chuckles, shaking his head as his breathing finally slows to an almost normal rate.

"I'll save you the trouble." He says and proceeds to recount with surprising detail exactly what he saw play out in front of his very eyes, in the body of the killer. You can only imagine what it must have been like, and not for the first time you envision the world as seen behind the carved out eyes of the taxidermy bull head. You feel for one fraction of second and with dreamlike intensity, warm fur pressing against your face, moist and sticky from your breath, which swims around your cramped head space with nowhere to escape save for the two holes poked where the nostrils would be, breath whistling out with animalistic and feral severity. You're back in your own body before Will even realizes that you left, and you stand to help him get to his feet.

Back on the ground below the fire escape you turn to him quickly, a sudden question blooming on your tongue, one you didn't know how to articulate but knew you had to ask nonetheless. You never do get your chance though, as a feminine voice rings through the air, high and teasing, coming from the mouth of the alley. You see Will's face fall before you even turn to see who it is, knowing immediately that this is who Will had been wary of meeting today. The reporter who just didn't know when to quit.

You turn and see a thin and stylish woman with fiery red hair all done up in wild little curls, the kind you can never seem to tell if they're genuine or not. You suspect the latter, though taking in her designer purse and shoes you decide that she'd have a hard time putting anything fake on her body- though the same could never be said about her little blog.

"Well, well," She says, not unlike that of a cartoon devil, you think to yourself, and imagine her with little red horns, peaking up out of her hair. 

"What a pair you two make. Careful though, you don't want to fall in love on the job, do you?" She laughs, a piercing cruel sound that makes you think back to your boarding school days, when girls like Freddie had been in abundance, a constant scourge on the schools you frequented, as they preyed on the weak, the innocent, and the lonely.

"Leave it alone Freddie. You don't belong here." Will says, anger coating every syllable. You can tell then, how much he really hates her.

"What, the sidewalk?" She picks teasingly at the yellow police tape that she hasn't yet crossed, and tilts her head to the side ponderously. "Honestly, I've done nothing wrong, Graham. Just stopping to say hi to my new coworkers." Her voice lilts up in mock sincerity, trying to sound sweet and innocent, yet hiding her true intentions poorly.

"We're barely even acquaintances, Freddie." Will says, jaw clenching furiously, hands balling into fists at his sides. You lay one hand on his, and it instantly relaxes, fingers going slack against his jeans. You dare not betray the gesture with a reassuring look, knowing Freddie would remember everything she saw, and attribute anything she wanted as its meaning.

"Hmm." Her eyes drift back up to your face from where you'd reached out to touch Will's hand, an action you'd hoped she missed. "We'll see about that." She says, indignantly. "After all, it's really Abigail's decision now, isn't it?" She turns to the side to continue leisurely down the sidewalk, casting one last triumphant smile over her shoulder as she disappears from view. You understand why momentarily, as the cavalry shows up seconds after she leaves, drenching the scene in red and blue flashing lights, becoming brighter with the setting of the sun.

"Who's Abigail?" You wonder aloud to Will, who opens his mouth to answer but doesn't get the chance as Beverly runs up to you excitedly, congratulating you loudly on the find.

She soon rushes inside with the other lab coats, following the steady stream of eager scientist with all their instruments and sterile equipment all sealed up in frosted plastic bags. Someone carried in a large cooler, you assumed for blood samples, yet it still made you shiver.

You both head over to Jack when you see him step out of the passenger side of a black FBI issue SUV, and he looks pleased to see you both acting in tandem.

"What do ya got for me?" He asks and Will instantly launches into his retelling, not sparing a single detail, and in fact telling him more than he had told you in the first place.

"Y/N was right, Jack." He says first, and you feel yourself begin to glow with pride as he continues on, giving you more than enough credit. "I think our killer had a personal relationship with Charlotte before he killed her." He says and you nod in agreement.

"He knew where she lived, where she would be tonight, what route she would take to walk home from the bus stop." You add before Will continues on.

"Picture this." Will says and Jack crosses his arms, settling in for a long ride as Will recounts the events of the murder. "Charlotte is walking home from the bus stop. It is dark, she is alone. There is no one on the street. Up ahead she sees something she doesn't quite understand, a terrifying sillhouette in the distance, a man... with horns? She turns left at the next block, away from home in order to avoid running into this strange man." Jack nods, eyes focusing on some point in the twilit sky, as if he could see it all being etched into the heavens as it is being told.

"She sees him again, and then again. She's panicking now, and far from home. She thinks about calling the police but decides to get somewhere safe first, though she has no idea where she is. The buildings are all dead and empty, no help around for blocks. She runs into an abandoned alley, trying several doors before she finds one that's unlocked, and as she slips inside, is engulfed in darkness. She doesn't know that he's already in there, silently waiting for her in the dark. 

"This is where he planned to kill her, and he was proud of the scene he chose. The dead machinery made for terrifying obstacles and jagged metal edges would shred her to ribbons if she wasn't careful- which apparently she wasn't. She cut her leg on a piece of rebar and bled out at least a liter of blood on her way through his maze.

"With how much our killer really knew about her though, he didn't know one crucial thing."

"What's that?" Jack asks with obvious intrigue.

"That Charlotte Green had a heart condition." By now you had gathered a sizable crowd for your retelling, and Zeller who had been looking over Jack's shoulder gasps despairingly next to his ear, perhaps astonished that he could miss something so important during an autopsy. He is immediately rewarded with a stern look and a command to find something better to do. In fact, all other onlookers disperse soon after, leaving you and Will alone with Crawford.

"She died, quite literally from fear, Jack." You continue and he nods grimly. You explain the missing heart medication, which you soon realize is the factor that solidifies the idea of a missing purse in his head. The makeup theory had been a good one, but sadly it hadn't been enough to convince him alone. It was a good thing you had gotten this second chance, even if you hadn't known it was a second chance at the time.

"Did you check the other floors?" He inquires and Will shakes his head.

"Didn't need to. He has the bag." Jack glances at you for confirmation, almost like he can't let himself satisfied with Will's word alone.

"She probably had pictures, personal items in there. He just couldn't resist." You say, agreeing with Will.

"He needed to hide the fact that this was personal, that he's known her long before this. They could've been childhood friends maybe, or high school sweethearts. Whatever they were to each other, I'd be willing to bet she meant much more to him than he did to her." Will says and then adds; "Next step would be to find out their relationship. Find out as much as we can about her life, the company she kept, the company she didn't keep." Jack nods and thinks quietly to himself, and turns to you after a moment.

"I want you to stay close to this Y/N, okay?" Your eyes widen in surprise but you immediately begin nodding your head vigorously, not realizing how much you had wanted to hear those words from him. Will also begins to smile at your reaction but Jack puts a hand up before you can get too excited.

"But if you're gonna do this, you're gonna do it my way, all right? Alana Bloom has offered to screen test you, not officially, but your participation on this case and all future cases are contingent on the results." He clarifies, and you mumble a "Yes sir" before he continues on.

"I wanna see you pass, and I wanna see you pass well. You'll keep seeing Doctor Lecter for therapy every week per usual, at no personal cost, of course." He begins to walk past you both, towards the building but turns before he disappears inside the door an agent must have crowbarred open.

"And Y/N?" He says and you turn and raise your eyebrows. "I want you dealing with this." He announces and is gone. You smile sheepishly at Will who chuckles at your expression.

"I don't think he has much faith in me." You say as you begin to walk the three blocks back to Crawford's car.

"No." Will says shaking his head. "He does. That's why he's betting so much on you." You cant help the laugh that escapes your lips as you add;

"I guess that is some measure of reassurance." And he responds in kind.

Back in the Jaguar Will inquires as to the state of your well being, a question you find can be in no way answered easily, or in a way that makes sense, so you simply nod your head, and let the smooth almost soundless engine lull you into a calm sense of security. Will's polite and thoughtful silence allowing you to finally relax and focus on the physical, rather than the reality that only existed in your head, the scene the you and Will had uncovered without ever witnessing it yourselves. Flashes of red, and pale yellow. Blood and beauty queen curls, fingers twisted into golden locks, twisting cruelly and painfully. 

~Present~

That is the last thought you have before you are wrenched back into your present reality by the indignant and outraged shouts of an old man. Something along the lines of; "I'll have you know I own this building!"

You know at once who the grating voice belongs to and roll your eyes and huff in exasperation as you throw open your apartment door, abandoning your dinner with the cat. What you find out in the hallway is strangely perplexing though you don't quite realize why until after. Will Graham stands looking rather accosted on your 9th floor landing, holding his hands out in front of him in submission. Mr. Elmer Ryerson from apartment 908 stands shouting with his finger wagging in Will's sorry face, giving him a lecture he most definitely did not deserve. 

"Elmer!" You put your hands on your hips accusatorially and raise your eyebrows. Elmer raises his brows in surprise and guilt at being caught, and Will whips around to face you with a look of instant relief and you smile at him reassuringly. Most of the time the old folks here just needed some good old fashioned mothering, someone to tell them when they were being old snots- they were like children in that way. 

"What are you doing out here, accosting my poor friend? Now what has he possibly done to you to get you so upset.?" You ask and make your way to his side, laying a hand gently on his back. You stood a good six inches over the hunched old man, and when he looked up at you his expression changed to one of good humor. The lines of anger from his forehead and eyes disappeared and he grunted as he spoke, still holding a grudge against Will, who's only crime you're assuming is knocking on the wrong door.

"A friend of yours?" Elmer asks, spitting out the word friend like an insult and crossing his arms indignantly at Will, who looks uncomfortably from you to the old man, pleading with his eyes for you to handle the situation. "You know I could call the police and have him arrested for loitering around in these hallways. Knocking about on people's doors at this hour!" The hour was about 7:15 but you didn't tell him that.

"Well Mr. Ryerson, I would consider it a personal favor if you did not have my friend arrested, especially since his only crime is pulling you away from Archie and Edith for a moment? You know them so well already." That's all it takes to set him to smiling and he touches your shoulder with affection, laughing heartily.

"You know I do!" He says through the sputtering, wheezing laughter of an old man.

"I'll come by next Sunday, we'll watch Lucy when she comes on, how 'bout that?"

"I'll leave the door unlocked." He says raising one shaky finger at you with mock severity, as if to say "And don't you flub the dub on me, you hear?" Which you knew to be his very favorite slang phrase from his war days, and one you'd often heard him say to friends and enemies alike. You agree enthusiastically and he looks satisfied.

"Oh I just love Lucy..." He says whimsically to himself as he turns back to his door, sparing Will one last hairy eyeball before he slams his door and locks it, adding one last insult to injury.

"Thanks for that." He says and you chuckle at his disgruntled appearance, he looks like a man who's just been accused of murder, and he wrings his hands nervously at his sides.

"No problem. He doesn't actually own the building you know, he just likes to say that." You say humorously as you open your own door and motion for him to follow you inside.

"Sorry for not calling first, I guess you must have changed your number since your trainee days." He says and you smile, already envisioning writing the digits on a sticky note to slip into his hand, or, forgoing paper entirely you could just write it on his palm, and let him feel the contours and curve of each digit etched into his skin by your deft and careful fingers.

"That's all right, lucky for you I haven't changed my mailing address since I was 13." You say, disregarding the years spent in boarding schools and portraying your fathers home as your own. He laughs as this and it's then you that you really notice how he looks, and taking in his tired eyes and pallid complexion, you decide he has the look of a man who needs a drink. Upon telling him this, he laughs again, and his expression brightens a bit at the suggestion.

"Yeah, a drink actually sounds great, but uh... unfortunately I am here on official FBI business." He clarifies regretfully as he unclasps his briefcase to pull out a sizable collection of case files all tightly bound together in a manila folder tied with a rubber band.

"Feel like doing some work, tonight?" He asks, and you smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys are enjoying this Fanfic! I'm gonna try to post a new chapter every week! Lemme know btw if you guys like my rendition of the characters- I'm committed to getting them as accurate as possible! You can also find this story on Wattpad- it has gifs :) 
> 
> Wattpad: Wolfmit


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